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A WAITING HEART. 



BY LOUISA CAPSADEL. 


Entered according to Act of Congress , in the year 1884 , by 
man L. Munro , in the office of the Librarian of 
Congress, at Washington , D. C. 


*r. 



NEW YORK: 

NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

34 & 36 VANDEWATER ST, 


Nor - 












































































































t 


A WAITING HEART. 


BY LOUISA CAPSADEL. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ To teach thee that grief bath her needful part, 
Midst the hidden things of the human heart.” 

"Help! help!" a woman's voice called out imploringly 
as a carriage dashed down a narrow street. 

But on the carriage went, over curb-stones, around a 
corner, and at last over a pile of bricks in front of an un- 
finished building. 

In a moment the occupants were thrown on the gravel 
before them, and from the woman’s head there trickled a 
stream of blood. 

There^was the usual excitement, and a rough crowd, 
such as would naturally be drawn from such a locality, 
which came with loud exclamations of pity and surprise, 
but none seemed disposed to offer help. 

“ What is the matter?” asked Dr. Brainard, driving up 
and addressing some of the spectators who had gathered 
around. 

“ There has been a runaway, and I guess the woman is 
killed," said a man carelessly. 

“ Hold my horse, and let me see," said he, tossing him 
the reins and making his way through the crowd. 

“ My God! it is Mrs. Benoir," said he, gazing on -the 
fair features of the lady on the ground before him. 


2 


A WAITING HEART . 


“ Some one bring me my buggy immediately/’ he 
cried. “ There, lift her carefully." 

“ What shall we do with the driver?" asked a by- 
stander. 

The doctor turned and looked a moment at the red, 
bloated face of the drunken coachman, and said: 

“ It would serve him right to leave him where he is — 
he is not much hurt, I think — but carry him in there," 
pointing to a small grocery near by, “and call Dr. Irvin 
to attend him. Now, my man, drive as quickly as pos- 
sible to No. 30 Avenue." 

A shriek from the servant that opened the door, put 
the house in eommotion, and the other servants gathered 
around with terror-stricken faces, as the apparently life- 
less form was carried up the steps. 

“Is she dead?" asked one. 

“No, but she is seriously hurt. Send for Mr. Benoir 
immediately, and for Cora, too, if she is not at home." 

The words had scarcely left his lips when a pale, slight 
girl, of perhaps fifteen, appeared at the door and asked, 
in surprise: 

“What is the matter. Dr. Brainard?" then darting 
to his side, cried, “ She is not dead ! oh, tell me she is 
not dead." * 

“ No, Cora," said he, looking pityingly at the pallid 
face that was upturned so imploringly, “but I dare not 
tell you she will live." 

She let go of the doctor’s hand, and followed them into 
the room, then stationed herself by the bed on which they 
had laid her mother, and said: 

“This is my place; now I am ready to do anything you 
wish." 

“ Hold this bandage," said Dr. Brainard, quietly. 

He bound up her head, gave her a potion, and then sat 
down to await the result. 

Mr. Benoir came in affrighted, went to the bedside and 


.4 WAITING HEART. 3 

looked at his wife, then at the doctor, to see if his coun- 
tenance would give him any ray of hope, but it did not, 
and he sat down and buried his face in his hands. 

Hour after hour passed by, but still no change in the 
sufferer. 

She lay in an unconscious state, her pulse giving sign 
that there was life, and nothing more. ' 

“ Doctor,” said Mr. Benoir, at last, “ I cannot stand 
this; something must be done.” 

“Nothing more can be done,” said he, “ but I will send 
for Dr. Lamond.” ♦ 

A messenger was sent. Dr. Lamond came, looked at 
Mrs. Benoir, and then the two men went out to hold a 
consultation. 

The little bronze clock on the mantel was just on the 
stroke of twelve when they again entered the room. 

Dr. Lamond came forward, felt her pulse, pushed gently 
back the long, dark hair, laid his hand on her head, then 
folded his hands and watched her. 

“Will she live, doctor?” asked her husband, trem- 
ulously. 

He did not reply. 

As her husband uttered these words, Mrs. Benoir, for 
the first time, unclosed her eyes, looked up at the group 
around her, then gave a little shiver, as if her feet had 
already touched the cold waters of death. 

“Doctor, she will live! See, she is conscious!” said 
Mr. Benoir, bending*over her. 

She looked up at her husband, and said, faintly: 

“No, Hugh, I cannot live; I am dying now; ere the 
morning dawns I shall be at rest.” 

A low groan broke from her husband’s lips, and Cora, 
who until now had been calm, sobbed aloud. 

“Hugh,” said she, laying her hand tenderly on his 
bowed head, “you n^ust not grieve so. I could wish to 
live for your and Cora’s sake put God knows best. My 


4 


A WAITING HEART \ 


poor child, ” said she, as Cora took her hand, “it is hard 
to leave yon. You must be a father and a mother both 
to her, Hugh, and in the days to come you will not forget 
me, will you, my husband?” 

“Never, never, my darling wife!” said he, taking her 
head in his arms, while a great sob choked his manly 
voice. 

“You are exciting your wife, Mr. Benoir,” said Dr. 
Brainard. 

“No, doctor, nothing can excite me now, and you will 
not deny me this last, sweet privilege,” said she, plead- 
ingly. 

The kind old doctor bowed his head, and motioning to 
Dr. Lamond, they both went out and closed the door, and 
the three were left together for the last time. 

When the doctor returned, Cora lay on the bed, crying 
piteously, the father with his head bowed in his hands, 
but the spirit of the mother had passed beyond. 

* * * * * * * 

. The room was shrouded in oppressive gloom, the pall of 
darkness hung over the whole place. 

In the middle of the room, on a marble table, rested 
the casket in which lay the dead, robed for her last home. 

Death did not seem to have touched her, for she lay 
there like one asleep, her head turned gently aside, and 
the soft brown hair was parted carelessly over her brow, 
while her hand clasped a rosebud on her breast. 

It was nearing the time for the funeral, and Cora stole 
into the room to take a last look at her mother. “Oh, 
my mother!” she cried, as she kissed the lips that ever- 
more would be mute, “how can I ever live without you!” 

Then feeling her utter loneliness, she threw herself into 
a chair, and hiding her face in the curtains of the win- 
dow, wept long and softly to herself. 

Some one entered the room. She looked up and saw 
it was Dr. Brainard. 


A WAITING HEART. 


5 


He did not notice her, but stood with folded arms 
looking at the still, cold form before him. With tears 
coursing down his cheeks, he stooped and kissed the pale 
brow, tenderly, reverently, then went out and closed the 
door. 

A hot flush mounted to Cora’s brow, but it died away 
as quickly as it came. 

“They were children together,” she reasoned, “and 
he has been our physician for years. Who knows but he 
may have loved her, and even if he did not; they haye 
been friends long enough for me not to be angry at this 
little act of love and respect, given for the last time.” 

“ Cora,” said a servant entering the room, “ could you 
not persuade your father to eat something? He has not 
tasted food since your mother died.” 

“I will try,” said Cora, and going out to the kitchen, 
she took the waiter of dainty food the cook had prepared 
and went into the library where her father was. 

“Father,” she said, softly. “I have brought you a 
cup of coffee.” 

He shook his head. 

“ Come, father, drink it, you will be sick if you do not. 
You are feverish now,” said she, laying her hand on his 
brow. 

. He motioned it away. 

“Father,” said she, putting down the cup, “is it not 
enough for me to be left without a mother? Do you 
want to die and leave me, too? Who would care for me 
when you were gone ? ” 

“Cora, I would do anything to please you, but the 
very thought of food makes me sick.” 

“ But only try to drink a little coffee, you are so weak.” 

He took the cup from her hand, tasted it, and then put 
it down, saying: 

“ Go! urge me no more, for I cannot.” 


6 A WAITING HEART. 

She kissed her father, and taking the untasted food, 
left the room. 

* * * * * * * 

“ The Lord gave, the Lord taketh away, blessed be the 

name of the Lord,” said the gray-haired minister as the 
clods fell with a dull sound into the grave, hiding the 
loved face forever from mortal view. 

Sobs mingled with groans came from the friends gather- 
ed there, for Mrs. Benoir had died as she had lived, be- 
loved by all who knew her. 

It has been said that there is no grief so great but that 
in time it will wear away. But people shook their heads 
as Hugh Benoir went by, for he looked as if years instead 
of months had passed over him since his wife’s death. 

His eyes were sunken, his step enfeebled, and all vigor 
of health gone. 

Cora noticed the change aud grew alarmed. “Dr. 
Brainard,” said she, one day, when she answered the bell, 
and met him at the door, “ are you going to see father?” 

“Yes.” 

“I wish you would urge him to take something. He 
grows worse each day.” 

“Twill do my best, Cora, but I am afraid medicine 
will do him little good.” 

“ Do try,” said she, clasping his hand. “I cannot bear 
to see him sutler so.” 

“Ah, doctor, is that you?” said her father, opening his 
* door. “ Come in.” 

“ It is of no use,” said he, wnen Dr. Brainard recom- 
mended several things. “ I do not need medicine. It is 
this mental torture that is killing me. I feel as if I can- 
not stand it any longer.” To the suggestion that he 
should go to Europe for a time, he answered: “ One can- 
not run away from sorrow; it follows us where we will, 
and it will not ‘ down at our bidding.’” 

“ But you do not know what a wonderful invigorator the 


A WAITING HEART . 


7 


sea air is. Only try it, and I am sure you will be pleased 
with the result. One is apt to grow melancholy when 
shut up with none but books for company. Seriously, I 
think it is your duty to go.” 

“ But what would I do with Cora? take her with me?” 

“ No, not this time. I would cheerfully take her into 
my own family and care for her until your return.” 

“ But it would break her heart to part from me now, 
poor child! She has been constantly with me since her 
mother died. She is very quiet, but I know she suffers 
intensely.” 

“ I do not doubt it, such natures suffer most, but I 
think Cora would be glad to have you go, much as it 
might pain her, for she is very deeply concerned about 
your health. ” 

“ She is in the hall. I will call her in, and if she is 
willing, I will consent to go,” said he. Cora came in 
with a frightened look on her face, for she knew not what 
she was to hear. “ You are no worse, father?” asked 
she, going over and sittting down by his side. 

“No, my child, but I think of going to Europe soon/ 

“ Oh father!” 

“ But Dr. Brainard thinks it best.” 

♦ “It will be so hard to have you leave me,” said she, 
turning away to hide her tears. 

“ I know it, Cora,” said he, stroking her hair, “ and I 
wish I could take you with me. Would you like to stay 
at the doctor’s while I am gone? He has kindly asked 
that you might.” 

“ If Mrs. Brainard and Estella would have no objections, 
I would rather stay with them than any one else.” 

“They will have no objections I am sure. Estella will 
be pleased to have one so near her own age with her,” 
said the doctor. 

“Is that all you want with me, father?” 

“Yes, pet.” 


8 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Then, if you will excuse me, I will go .” 

“Now that it is decided, when will you start?” asked 
the doctor, addressing Mr. Benoir. 

“ Next week, if possible. I shall commence to make 
arrangements immediately. You can draw on me through 
the bank for anything Cora may need, and should I never 
return, I want you to be her guardian.” 

“ It shall be as you wish.” 

“ You will be kind to her, doctor, for she is a strange 
child, and sensitive to a fault.” 

“ I pledge you my honor that I will be a father to her 
in every sense of the word. I see you are tired and need 
quiet, and I will leave you. Be sure to take the medicine 
I gave you. Good-morning.” 

All arrangements have been made. Hugh Benoir was 
to start for Europe. It was the last night Cora and her 
father would spend together for months, and perhaps for- 
ever. To-morrow the house would be closed until his 
return. It was a sad, sad evening to them both, and they 
proposed to spend it in her mother’s room, which had 
not been opened since Mrs. Benoir closed it herself. 

Cora opened the door and stood irresolute for a moment 
on the threshold. It seemed almost a sacrilege to enter. 
There was her chair dr^wn up by the grate, her slippers 
beside it; on the table her embroidery and writing-desk, 
with the pen thrown down on a half-finished page. Cora 
looked up at her father as she noted these things. He 
was leaning against the door, a look of intense pain on his 
face, and his teeth tightly set over his bloodless lips. 

“ Shall 1 put them away, father?” said Cora, in a 
tremulous voice, moving toward the table. 

“No, no!” said he, putting out his hand as if to shield 
them; “her hands placed them there; leave them alone. 
Only one thing remove, and that is her picture over the 
mantel; I wish to take it with me.” 


A WAITING HEART. 


9 


Cora took down the picture and placed it in his 
hand. 

“My wife! my wife!” said he with emotion, as he 
looked at the beautiful face, “ Oh that you were with us 
still!” 

“Father,” said Cora, putting her arms around his neck, 
“ mother is an angel now, and much as we miss her dear 
presence we must not wish her back. ' He doeth all 
things well/ Let us try and remember this.” 

“I know it, my child, but it is so hard to say ‘ Thy 
will be done/ I cannot bow meekly under the rod that 
has stricken me. What will I do without my little 
ministering angel when I am far away, a stranger in a 
strange land?” 

“ You must write to me then whenever you feel lonely, 
and I will comfort you all I can.” 

“ You have been a great comfort already, Cora. Life 
would have been insupportable if it had not been for you. 
You have waited on me without a murmur.” 

“ I had no reason to murmur, father. It was a pleas- 
ure to wait on you, and I am only sorry that I cannot do 
more,” said she, her voice trembling at the thought that 
he would soon be too far away for her to care for him. 

He gathered her into his arms, and sitting down in a 
chair, rocked her back and forth as if she were a babe he 
was hushing to sleep. It was a t night that neither forgot 
during the long separation that followed. 

The clock was striking eleven. Mr. Benoir gently un- 
wound Cora's arms from about his neck, and said: “It is 
late, my child; I must say good-night, and if ever we 
meet again I trust it will be with happier hearts. Shall I 
leave you here?” 

Cora clung to him until he closed the door, then sank 
down by a chair and cried, “ Oh, Father in Heaven, 
spare him! spare him for my sake!” 

The parting between Mr. Benoir and the servants, the 


10 


A WAITING HEART. 


next morning, would have touched the hardest heart. 
There was John, and his wife, who had nursed him when 
a babe, and had grown old in his service, with tears roll- 
ing down their wrinkled cheeks, bidding him God-speed. 
Nor was Mr. Benoir less aifected, for he had become 
greatly attached to them during these long years. Cora 
stood apart from them all, her eyes closed, and arms 
folded tightly across her heart, as if that would ease the 
pain there. 

“ Cora, my child,” said her father, crossing over to 
where she stood, “ don’t grieve so; I will come back 
again.” 

“ Oh, if I could only think so. I have tried to be 
cheerful, tried not to cause you any more pain, but can- 
not, cannot help it,” she said, throwing herself into his 
arms and bursting into tears. 

He did not hush her grief, but softly stroked her hair 
for a minute, then drew her down by his side, and 
talked with her pleasantly until she had regained 
her wonted composure and a little of her old cheerful- 
ness. 

“ Shall we go now?” he asked at length. 

She assented, and they left the house, entered the car- 
riage, and drove down to the wharf. 

“Ah, good-morning, Hugh!” said Dr. Brainard, com- 
ing up when the carriage stopped. “ A fine morning to 
sail! you will have a pleasant journey, no doubt. Cora, 
Estella came down with me.” 

The meeting between the girls was very cordial, and 
Dr. Brainard and Mr. Benoir left them to themselves. 

As soon as her father left her, Cora’s cheerfulness van- 
ished, and, seating herself, she covered her face with her 
hands, to gain strength for the ordeal before her. 

“ Cora,” said Dr. Brainard, coming up a few minutes 
later and gently removing her hands, “your father is 
waiting to say good-bye,” 


A WAITING HEART . 


11 


Cora sprang up and caught her father’s hands, her 
voice too full for utterance. He clasped her in his arms, 
saying, “Cora, my darling child! good-bye. May God 
bless you!” 

She clung to him a moment in the agony of despair, 
then, with a great sob, let him go, and leaned upon 
Estella for support. She felt the crowd sweep by to enter 
the steamer, but she did not look up. She heard the bell 
ring, and knew that the vessel would soon move off, but 
she did not heed it. Estella was frightened at her mute 
grief, and shaking her gently by the arm, said, “ Cora, 
your father is waving to you from the deck.” 

“ Oh, Estella, how can I see him go!” she cried, cover- 
ing her face with her hands. 

“It will be hard, I know, but you must remember that 
his very life depends upon this journey. This separation 
is paining him also. Do not grieve him more by causing 
him to bear away with him the remembrance of such a 
doleful face.” 

Cora moved away from Estella, leaned over the railing, 
waved her handkerchief in response, and remained look- 
ing outward until her father could no longer be distin- 
guished, then walked slowly back with the doctor and 
Estella, and entered the carriage that awaited them 
Leaning her head on Estella’s shoulder, she wept all the 
way to the home that was to be hers until her father 
should return. 

“ My poor little girl! how I wish I could comfort you!’ 
said the doctor, when they arrived at his house, and he 
lifted her out of the carriage. 

At these few words, so kindly uttered, her tears burst 
forth anew, and she clung to the doctor’s hand, feeling 
that he alone stood between her and the world which had 
grown so cold and dark.” 


12 


A WAITING HEART \ 


CHAPTER II. 

Cora was selfish in nothing but her grief. This she 
brooded over until she could think or speak of nothing 
else. 

“ Cora/* said the doctor, coming into the room where 
she sat gazing out of the window at the leaden clouds, 
with despair written on every feature of her pale face, 
“'are you cold? Come to the fire," 

For a moment she continued her gaze, then turned and 
said: 

“Am I cold? Oh, yes, so cold that I feel as if nothing 
could ever warm me into life again. My heart is as dead 
as this!” she exclaimed-, passionately, laying her hand on 
a bunch of withered flowers, “ but my head is throbbing 
and my pulse is quick; see!” 

“You are nervous and need rest. I will tell Estella to 
go with you to your room. You will feel better in the 
morning.” 

“ Never while I feel as bitter as I do. I don’t jsee why 
1 have to suffer so. What have I done to deserve it?” 

“ Cora, 1 am astonished to find you trying to steel your 
heart against God’s tender mercies,” said the doctor, 
rather sternly. “ Your trials are great, and I know they 
are hard to bear, but think how many have lost both 
father and mother — been thrown out upon the cold 
charities of the world with none to help them. You have 
a loving father and friends, and are surrounded by all 
the luxuries wealtli can give. I may appear harsh, Cora, 
but do not mean to be. I have taken a strange interest 
in you and cannot see your loving, trusting nature hard- 
ened by the waves of distrust that seem to sweep over 
you. Oh, Cora, still trust in the God whom your angel 
mother trusted in,” said he looking sorrowfully down 
into the pale face that with its look of suffering reminded 
him strangely of Beatrice. 


A WAITING HEART. 


18 

“ Thank you, I will think of your words,” said she 
quietly, then slowly left the room. 

There is no hopelessness like that of youth. In after 
years we can look back and know that the problem which 
lay so blankly before us has worked out its own solution, 
and that it was but an opening to green fields and flowery 
paths, wherein our tired feet found rest. 

But to her the problem seemed so difficult, the cloud 
stretched out so hopelessly before her life, that she lived 
in utter darkness. 

She had cheered and encouraged her father because 
she felt it her duty, but now that he was gone, and all re- 
straint taken away, she gave up to the bitterness she felt. 

As she sat before the fire in her room that night, 
pondering over the doctor’s words, a sense of her true 
condition flashed through her mind. 

Was she really forsaking the teachings of her youth? 
God forbid! and kneeling down by her bed she prayed as 
she never had before, not that the cup might pass by, 
but that He would shape her path to his own choosing 
and make her willing to say, “ Thy will be done;” and out 
of tji-e dust and ashes of it all, there came a new hope, a 
new faith, that was far, far beyond her greatest expec- 
tations. _ 

“How do you feel this morning?” asked Doctor 
Brainard of Cora, a few days after his conversation with 
her. 

“Better, thank you,” she replied, smiling. 

“Iam glad tc hear it. You must take plenty of ex- 
ercise and get red cheeks, like Estella’s,” said he, playfully 
pulling her curls. “ What a contrast there is between 
you, yon little drooping snow-drop!” 

There was indeed a contrast between them. Estella 
was tall and beautifully formed. She had large, hazel 
eyes, with long, golden lashes sweeping her fair, oval face, 
that was haughty in its contour; nose Grecian in shape; 


14 


A WAITING HEART. 


mouth straight and firm; long, sunny hair that she Wore 
in massive braids wound round her classic head, which 
gave it a queenly grace. Her manner was cool and lady- 
like, never betraying the least emotion. Cora was her 
opposite, slight and pale, with brown, clustering curls; 
large, truthful blue eyes and daintily arched brows; a 
mouth beautifully curved, with a child-like tremor about 
it. There are some faces we meet which seem to have a 
subtle influence that makes us like them in spite of our- 
selves. Such a face had Cora Benoir. Estella was far the 
more beautiful; yet she lacked that sweet, half shy, half 
sad expression that was so attractive in Cora. 

“ Where is your mother, Estella?” asked the doctor, 
when the breakfast-bell rang. 

“In her room. She was at Mrs. Stone’s party last 
night, and did not get home till very late.” 

The doctor sighed. 

“ Had you not better tell her breakfast is ready?” said 
he, after a time. 

“ She has heard the bell.” 

He looked at his watch. “Come, let us go to break- 
fast, for it is time to visit my patients.” 

“From father! Why doctor, where did you get it?” 
said Cora, her face beaming as she picked up the letter 
that lay on her plate, and glanced at her address. 

4 ‘ It came this morning. The steamer remains about 
two hours at Halifax, and he posted it there. 

“He is feeling better already,” said Cora, as she read 
the letter. 

“No doubt, he would tell a different tale now,” said 
the doctor, laughing. 

Cora looked up questioningly. 

“He is only sea-sick.” 

“Oh!” said she, feeling relieved. 

“ Is he pleased with his journey, so far?” 

“ Yes, sir. Would you like to read the letter?” 


A WAITING HEART. id 

He took it, read it through, then handed it back, say- 
ing: 

“You need not have any more fears, Cora, for your 
father will come back as well as ever.” 

Just as they had finished breakfast, Mrs. Brainard 
swept into the room and sat down at the table. She was 
tall and slender, with black hair and dark, piercing eyes, 
and her clear, olive complexion was in perfect harmony 
with the wine : colored dress she wore. She was very 
young in appearance, and one would not think the tall, 
fair-haired girl by her side her daughter. 

“ Good-morning,” said Dr. Brainard, pleasantly. 

“Good-morning,” she replied, indifferently. 

“ The ham and eggs are cold,” said she, turning to the 
/servant who stood by her chair, “ and if it happens again, 
you will lose your place, remember that, Hannah.” 

“ It was not Hannah's fault, for we waited breakfast 
some time for you,” said Estella. 

“Wait until you are spoken to, if you please! Your 
impudence is unbearable, and I will have no more it.” 

Estella paid no attention to her mother's angry look or 
words, but turning to Cora, [said, “ Come into the library, 
I want to show you the book of engravings that father 
received last week.” 

“How beautiful!” exclaimed Cora, as she turned over 
the leaves. 

“ They are all Swiss scenes. What could be more pict- 
uresque than that group of peasants? How I would like 
to go to Switzerland. Nothing would please me better 
than to clamber over the Alps, or in the long summer 
days rest beside Lake Leman, in sight of the snow-white 
battlements of Chillon, that Byron has told us about. 
You ought to read Mr. Harmon's letters to father, they 
put me in a perfect fever for traveling. You, I suppose, 
will get glowing descriptions from your father. He can 


16 


A WAITING HEART . 


write again in two weeks, can lie not?” she asked, ad- 
dressing her father who had just entered the room. 

“Yes, he will be safe in Liverpool before that time un- 
less something unusual happens.” 

“ Don’t you wish you could have gone with your father, 
Cora?” asked Estella. 

“ No, I want to wait until I am older, and my educa- 
tion is finished, then I can appreciate such a trip,” 

“ Do you expect to go?” 

“Certainly, it is an old dream of mine.” 

“I hope your dream will prove a reality; I am afraid 
mine never will. I have been coaxing father this long 
while to go, but he says that one trip to Europe has been 
enough for him, and that the rest of his days he means 
to remain in his own country.” 

“Which is far superior to any other,” said the doctor, 
looking up from a note he had been writing. 

“ But it is quite fashionable to go to Europe now.” 

“ Oh, is this why you wish to go, Estella?” said the 
doctor, laughing. 

“No, sir, but because I really wish to see the place I 
have read so much about.” 

“ I guess I will send you over with a party of our 
friends one of these days.” 

Estella changed the subject. 

“This is such a beautiful morning, Cora, let us go out 
for a ride.” 

“Estella, I would like to know where you are going?” 
said Mrs. Brainard, coming to the door, as they were 
ready to drive off. “ You know Eugene is coming to- 
day, and I wish you to be here to meet him.” 

“I am not particularly anxious whether I am or not. 
You can entertain him if I am not,” and she drove off 
without looking at her. 

“ How can you talk so to your mother?” said Cora. 

“Ah, my dear, you will get used to that if you remain 


A WAITING HEART. 


17 


with us long. I idolize my father, but I fear I have but 
little love for my mother. Had you been forced to bear 
what I have all my life, you would have cried yourself to 
death long ago, but I am made of entirely different ma- 
terial, and such things do not hurt me.” 

“ Perhaps you do not always do right, Estella.” 

“I know that I do not, but there is a point where for- 
bearance ceases to be a virtue. You know how patient 
my father is, and you ought to see how she treats him. 
Why — but let us talk of something else, or I will forget 
she is my mother. We will drive faster, and try to get 
back before Eugene comes/’ 

May I ask who Eugene is?” 

“ A cousin of mine. He graduated at Princeton last 
week. He is an orphan, and like yourself, has but few 
relatives; we, I believe, being the only ones, excepting 
his grandmother. The little village in which she lives is 
too quiet and monotonous to suit him, and he has decided 
to make his home with us until he has one of his own. 
He is handsome and very wealthy, but I know you will 
not like him if he is anything like he was four years ago. 
Mother has set her heart on making a match between us, 
but I never saw a relative of mine that I could love well 
enough to marry, and I would not have him if he were 
worth ten times as much as he is. A nice life we would 
live! Wouldn’t our wills clash!” 

“ Does your cousin know your mother’s designs?” 

“ No, indeed, and she will be careful that he does 
not.” 

“ Oh, Estella, this day has brought mother so vividly 
before my mind,” said Cora, as they came in sight of the 
large greenhouses. “ She was with me the last time that 
I was here. Oh, can I ever forget her!” 

Estella was silent. 

“ I am going to buy some flowers, Cora; would you like 


A waiting heart 


IB 

to get out and go with me?” asked she at length, trying 
to draw her mind from the past. 

“ I would rather remain here.” 

“ Eugene has come,” said Estella, when they arrived 
home. “ Hear the piano; he is a brilliant musician.” 

“Cousin Estella, how glad I am to see you!” said Eu- 
gene, rising from the piano and fondly kissing her; then 
holding her off at arm’s length, he exclaimed, “ What a 
beauty you have grown to be!” 

“Thank you; how glad I am that I can return the 
compliment. This is my friend, Miss Cora Benoir,” said 
she, turning to her as she stood in the doorway. “ She 
is staying with us while her father is in Europe, and I 
shall expect you to make yourself very agreeable to my 
guest.” 

He bowed low, placed her a chair, then went on into 
the next room, where Estella had gone to remove her 
wrappings, and said: “You would not remain at home 
to meet me,” in a reproachful tone. 

“ I did not think you would care. Accept this as a 
peace offering,” said she, taking a moss rosebud from her 
bouquet, and pinning it on his buttonhole. “ We under- 
stand each other too well to quarrel,” said she, looking 
up into his face. 

“ That means, I suppose, that you have as little confi- 
dence in me now as when we were children together, and 
that you love me as little.” 

“ Exactly, but then you are handsome and talented, 
and looking at you in that light, 1 am very proud that 
you are my cousin. Now don’t get angry, but let us go 
to mother and Cora.” 

“ They would suit each other so well,” said Mrs. Brain- 
ard, in a low voice to Cora, “ but I cannot make her think 
so. I shall expect you, Cora, to help me.” 

“ I abhor match-making,” Cora replied, 

“ Indeed!” 


A WA IT TNG ' HE A RT. 


19 


Cora colored at the ridicule the tone meant to apply, 
and walking away, sat down in the bay window. 

“ What are you dreaming about ?” cried out Estella. 

“Come, sing this piece from Tom Moore. I want 
Cousin Eugene to hear what a voice you have.” 

“ Please excuse me.” 

“ If o, you are too modest; here is the music. I will 
put back the curtain, so you will have more light.” 

Cora complied reluctantly. The bright rays of the sun 
fell through the window, ‘across her pale face, lighting it 
with a sunny glow as she sat at the piano, and the words 
of the song fell from her lips as sweet and as fine as a 
bird’s warblings. 

Eugene stood and watched her with a look of admira- 
tion in his large eyes. She looked so pure, so innocent, 
so unlike the women he had known all his life. 

The color came and went in her cheeks, and the vio- 
let eyes filled with tears at the sad, passionate words of 
the song. 

“A creature all soul!” he mentally exclaimed. “ She 
could love deeply, passionately perhaps, but could not 
hate. It would be something to win her love. I have a 
notion to try, but it may grow monotonous after a time. 
How different she is from my matchless Estella, mine at 
the speaking of the word, if I may understand my aunt 
aright. No, no, good aunt, keep your daughter, I have no 
relish for the truth, even though it fall from 'beautiful 
lips. I would not dare to flirt with her, for she is cold as 
marble, keen and swift as an arrow, and besides under- 
stands me too thoroughly. But as for that little blossom 

” He did not finish the sentence, for the song was 

ended, and she looked up with tears still quivering on the 
long, brown lashes. 

A guilty flush spread over his face, for, traitor-like, he 
felt she had divined his thoughts; but the next moment 
the utter absurdity of the feeling presented itself to his 


20 


A WAITING HEART . 


mind, and giving her a sweet smile, and a look from his 
dark, fascinating eyes: 

“ You sing well. Many having such a voice would be 
tempted to go on the stage.” 

“ I have never been so ambitious; but should I ever be 
forced to depend on my own exertions for a living, should 
in all probability put my voice to some use. Estella has 
told me you were quite a musician. Please favor me with 
this piece from Beethoven.” 

“ People have flatttered me* enough to tell me that I 
am,” said he, bowing. “ After I am through, your ver- 
dict shall decide it.” 

“ I am not capable of judging.” 

“ Oh, but you are. This is one of my favorites,” said 
he, taking the music from her hand; “ Is it yours?” 

“Yes, but I admire all of Beethoven’s compositions.” 

“ How I wish I could play like you,” said Cora, after 
he had complied with her request. “ Your touch is so 
light, easy and graceful.” 

“Yet your voice is worth it all, and you must sing for 
me again. Sing me this old ballad.” 

Estella looked up from the music he had presented her 
a few moments before, and an angry light came into her 
eyes as she noticed his lover-like behavior to Cora. 

Would he try to blight her young life? Would he sue 
for her love, and having gained it, toy with it, as a child 
with a plaything? Yes, she knew his race well. She 
would warn Cora. She would not be blind to his thoughts. 

“Cora,” said she, interrupting them, “see how our 
flowers have withered. Let us go and put them in the 
water,” 


A WAITING HEART . 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Come, I would forewarn thee and forearm thee; for keen 
are the weapons of his warfare, 

And while my soul hath scorned him, I have watched 
his skill from afar.” 

“Cora, are you going to school ?” asked Estella, ad- 
dressing her as she sat in the library with Eugene, dis- 
cussing the merits of some book, a few weeks after his 
arrival. 

“I must start again sometime; I suppose I may as well 
go this morning,” she replied, rising from her chair, re- 
luctantly. 

“What will you do with me?” said Eugene, with mock 
gravity. 

“Leave you at home, or let you call on the ladies. 
You know Nina Rivers. She is quite a belle, and no 
doubt she would be pleased to add your name to her list 
of admirers.” 

“I donT like your belles, they are always such horrid 
flirts.” 

“And pray what are you? It would be * diamond cut 
diamond/ I think.” 

“ You misjudge me,” said he, with a slight touch of 
anger in his tone. 

“No, I think not. Men of your temperament are all 
such. It is just as natural for them to flirt as it is to 
breathe. But, Eugene, do spare the innocent. If you 
must flirt, let it be with your own kind,” said she, seri- 
ously, and in a low tone. 

He looked at her defiantly a moment, then coming up 
to her side, said: 

“I shall do as I please, now and always, remember 
that, and don ? t interfere.” 

“Remember that I shall interfere, and on the first oc- 
casion, too.” 


22 


A WAITING HEART 


“And what good do you think it will do, my pretty 
cousin?” said he, smiling. 

She drew herself up proudly, and left the room. 

There are some men so base at heart that there is no 
deed too dark for them to do, if it would accomplish 
their own ends. Such a man was Eugene Tracy. Yet 
he had some good qualities, prominent among them was 
his generosity. No beggar asked in vain for alms. None 
ever poured a sorrowful tale in his ear, but that they 
found sympathy; but where his own interests were con- 
cerned he was selfish to the heart’s core. He had never 
known a mother’s nor a father’s love; they had died ere 
he was old enough to feel their influence. Perhaps, if 
they had lived, he would have been a different man. 

Cora’s life had been almost one of seclusion. She 
cared not for society. To her it held no charms, and she 
felt more at home with her books and her music. Yet 
she was not unlike other girls. Sometimes her thoughts 
would wander off in a dreamy sort of way, while visions 
of the future, vague, yet sweet, would fill her mind, and 
prominent among her dreams now was a tall form of 
manly grace, a face handsome enough to enrapture an 
artist. Forgive her. She was so young, so unused to 
the way of the world, and women older and better versed 
in love than she had fallen in admiration before her 
hero. 

A flush mounted on her cheek, as Eugene entered the 
room and stood by her side. She picked up her school- 
books to hide her confusion, but he noticed this, and 
taking advantage of it, began his role. 

“I shall be so lonely to-day without you, for you are 
so kind, and have helped to make my time pass so differ- 
ent from aunt and Estella.” 

“But they do not mean to be unkind,” said she, at 
last lifting her face. 

“Perhaps not; yet it has always been so. After my 


A WAITING HEART . 


23 


father died, I remained with them until I went to college, 
but do what I would, I could never please them. They 
say that I have talents, that I can become distinguished, 
if I choose, and I have sometimes thought that I would 
put my wealth and learning to some use; but who would 
be proud of me if I did? who cares if I live or die? If 
my parents had only lived, it would have been so differ- 
ent. Oh, you do not know what a dreary life it is to 
live uncared for, unloved!” 

“No, I do not, and I trust I never may. I could not 
live without love. But you are not uncared for. Your 
aunt, your uncle, your cousin care for you; they would be 
proud to see you fill a high position in the world, and I 
am sure I would too.” 

“ Would you, really? Thank you. That assurance 
cheers me as nothing else could, and will repay me for 
long, hard years of study. Believe me, trust me, be my 
guide, make me what I should be,” said he, with sudden 
earnestness, looking down into her clear, blue eyes; and 
for the moment he was actually in earnest, for he obeyed 
every impulse whether good or bad. 

“I cannot shape your future life, that depends on you 
alone, but I will help you all I can. I will be your friend 
always.” Then she went away, feeling that Estella was 
unjust toward him, and that she had allowed herself to be 
influenced by her words, for she had been cold and dis" 
tant whenever he approached her; but she resolved that 
hereafter she would make amends for it all. 

“Ladies, if you will allow me, I will walk as far as the 
seminary with you,” said Eugene, coming out of the door 
as they were starting. 

He questioned Cora about her studies, and affected sur- 
prise when she expressed her liking for Greek and mathe- 
matics. 

“ You are so different from any one that I have met be- 
fore. Don’t look hurt. I am better pleased with you 


24 


A WAITING HEART. 


than I ever was with any other young lady,” said he 
softly. 

“ Don’t let him flatter yon, Cora,” said Estella, who 
had caught the smile he gave her, but not the words; “he 
has in all probability told many young ladies the same he 
is now telling you.” 

“ How do you know?” he asked, quickly, his black 
eyes flashing. 

“Don’t I know you are a flirt?” 

“I will not deny your accusations any more, but I 
will say, I can appreciate, yes, I can honor truth and in- 
nocence, when I meet it.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said she, in a tone that showed her doubt 
of it. 

“ Every one would think me a scoundrel, to hear you 
talk,” said he, angrily. “I trust she understands ine 
better than you.” 

“ It is to be hoped, at least, that she does,” she replied, 
indifferently. 

“ Cora,” said Estella, after her cousin had left them, 
“do you believe all that Eugene tells you?” 

“ You would not have me believe that Eugene tells 
what is untrue?” 

“ I do not mean exactly that; but he says things that 
he knows can never be — that he would not even desire to 
be. Remember that all his life he has been surrounded 
by the gay and worldly, and he is not one to resist 
temptation.” 

“ Then the more charitable we ought to be with his 
faults.” 

“ Well, we will not quarrel. I like you, Cora, and have 
said this only for your good. All are not so true as you 
are.” 

“ Don’t praise me, Estella; you do not know what my 
feelings are sometimes.” 

“ But you are different from Eugene and me. You 


A WAITING HEART . 


25 

would scorn to tell an untruth, or to be anything but 
what you really are. We are not always so scrupulous. 
Your life has always been so secluded, that you know 
but little of the world. Perhaps I know little more; 
but what I do know only convinces me that very few are 
true.” 

“ I cannot thinfc like you, Estella. I cannot think 
meanly of any one until their actions prove it. If my 
faith in every one must grow dim, let me find it out my- 
self. Let me keep my trust as long as I can, and when 
the time comes that I cannot keep it, 1 will be warned; 
but not now.” 

“ Brave words, Cora, but I am afraid your loving, 
trusting nature will be duped some day. Madame De 
Bruler is waiting to speak to you.” 

“Good-morning, Cora!” and Madame De Bruler cor- 
dially embraced her pupil. “ I was just on the point of 
sending for you. Blanche Wardleigh had a hemorrhage 
last night, and begged that I would have you come to her. 
You will find her in her old room.” 

Cora was soon beside her friend. 

“ Oh, Cora, I am glad to see you. It seems such an 
age since you were at school,” said Blanche, putting her 
arms around her neck and kissing her. 

“I am glad to see you, but sorry you are sick. I trust 
that you will be better soon.” 

“I know that I am worse, I feel so weak here,” said 
she, laying her hand on her chest. “ Father is coming 
to take me home to-morrow. Brother Grant has just 
finished at Princeton, and father has made him his agent. 
He is going south, and will take me with him for my 
health; but I know it will be of no use — my days are 
numbered. I ought to have told them sooner, but I 
dreaded to alarm mother. You must not forget me, Cora 
— you have been my dearest friend — and sometimes you 
must write to me, and tell me all about school. I did 


26 


A WAlTim HEART. 

hope I could have finished my studies before I left; but 
it does not matter now, I shall not need them up there. ” 

“You are gloomy, Blanche. I have great faith in a 
change of climate, because it is already doing my father 
so much good, and I would not be surprised if you would 
come back and graduate with us yet,” said Cora, trying 
to appear cheerful, although her heart almost doubted 
what she said. 

“ No, Cora, I shall never be here again. I am going 
just as sister Grace did. If Madame De Bruler is willing, 
you will stay with me to-night, won’t you?” 

“Yes, gladly.” 

“ Estella,” said Cora, going to her at recreation hour, 
“ I will not go home with you to-night. Blanche will go 
home to-morrow, and wishes me to stay with her till then. 
She thinks she cannot get well, and I have but little hope 
of it myself. You will excuse me?” 

“ Certainly, but is there really no hope for her?” 

“ I have just been talking to Madame De Bruler. The 
doctor had said it would be better to send her home at 
once, and he would hardly have said that, if she was in no 
danger.” 

“Where is Cora?” asked Eugene, meeting Estella on 
the street as she was coming home from school. 

“ She will stay with Blanche Wardleigh to-night, for 
Blanche is going home to-morrow. She and Blanche are 
very intimate.” 

“ Who is Blanche Wardleigh?” 

“She is Blanche Wardleigh of Brighton, that is all I 
can tell you.” 

“ I wonder if she is Grant Wardleigh’s sister?” 

“I have heard her speak of a brother Grant, at Prince- 
ton.” 

“It is the same, then. Talking of true men, Estella, 
you ought to know Grant Wardleigh. He is the best 
fellow that 1 ever met. He was my room-mate for the 


A WAITING HEART. 


3 ? 


last three years, and I never knew him to commit a 
mean act in all that while. He adores the ladies. You 
could not convince him they were anything less than 
angels." 

“It is a pity he didn't convert you," said she, iron- 
ically. 

“I think I should have been dubious about you being 
one, if he had." 

She curled her lips scornfully, and walked away. 

Eugene followed close behind, whistling merrily. 

“ Come, Estella, let us play this duet. I beg pardon 
for what I said to-day." 

She came and sat down at the piano, as unconcerned as 
if nothing had happened. 

“Has not Cora a grand voice?" he asked, after they 
were through. 

“Yes, but it will never do her much good. She is so 
shy that she can hardly ever be persuaded to sing." 

“She has been shielded too much like a tropical plant. 
She will get over all that when she sees more of the 
world. Isn't she the most innocent creature that you 
ever met?" 

“Yes; and for that reason you should not take ad- 
vantage of her." 

“I am not doing so. I assure you I admire her im- 
mensely." 

“ I would like to know what you see in that little 
ignoramus to admire?" said Mrs. Brainard, who just then 
entered the room, and had caught the thread of their 
conversation. “ She is as awkward as a country girl, and 
too thin and pale to be a beauty." 

“ Beg pardon, aunt, but you are mistaken for once. 
Miss Cora is not ignorant. I doubt if there are any of 
her age whose education is more thorough. She is bash- 
ful, I admit, but that has a charm for me, for I am tired 
of bold women." He paused a moment, to see the effect 


A WAITING HEART. 


of his last words, and then went on. “ She is not beauti- 
ful like Estella, few are; but then she is interesting, at 
least I think so,” and he smiled at the pet he had put his 
aunt in. 

‘‘There is no accounting for men’s taste, they always 
admire these milk-and-water characters that any one can 
twine around their linger,” said Mrs. Brainard. 

“ Just try to twine her around your finger, mother, and 
•see how you will succeed,” said Estella. 

“Aunt cannot expect to find every one as strong- 
minded as herself,” said Eugene. 

“ Don’t say I am strong-minded,” in an angry tone. 
“If there is anything that I detest, it is a strong-minded 
woman.” 

Eugene and Estella laughed, and Mrs. Brainard 
haughtily swept out of the room. 

Cora little thought as she sat at her friend’s bedside 
that she was the subject o I conversation at Dr. Brainard’s, 
nor did she care; she only thought of her friend’s com- 
fort. After she had given her the medicine the doctor 
had left, she asked if she should finish the book they had 
commenced reading together before. 

“Yes,” said Blanche, “ I would like to have you finish 
it before I go home. Shade the light, so that it will not 
hurt my eyes. There; thank you.” 

It was late in the evening before the book was finished. 
Then they both were silent, for the weird, sad story had 
thrown a spell upon them that each was loath to break. 
Cora glanced at Blanche as she lay there, her long, black 
hair sweeping over the pillow, her dark eyes closed, her 
face thin and pale, with a hectic spot glowing on either 
cheek. There was a sweet, patient look that one seeing 
could not readily forget. It looked so hard that one so 
young, so beautiful, should die. “Must she lose all she 
loved?” Then she thought of her mother, and the tears 
rolled down her cheeks. 


A WAITING HEART . 


29 


Blanches large, dark eyes unclosed and eagerly scanned 
her face. 

“ What is the matter?" she asked. 

“I was thinking of mother." 

“If I could only comfort you, but a few words are all 
the world can give, and they seem cold. I have kept you 
up late, you ought to have been in bed long ago. It is 
such a pleasure to know that I shall have you with me the 
last night that I am here; and, oh, Cora, do not forget 
me after I leave. If I. am too weak to write. Grant will 
answer your letters. I have told him so much about you, 
that you will not seem a stranger to him, and when I am 
dead, think of me sometimes for the sake of days that 
are gone." 

“ My dear, dear friend, I shall never forget you. It 
grieves me to think that we may never meet again." 

“ Do not say never meet again, Cora. I will only go 
before, you will come by and by." 

“You do not know how rebellious I felt toward God, 
or you would not say so. I would not be reconciled to my 
mother’s death, although I would let no one know how 
bitter I felt. Those feelings are all gone now; but will 
God ever forgive me? 

“ I felt just as you do when Grace died. She was my 
twin sister; we had shared each other’s thoughts ever 
since we were old enough to talk; we read the same books; 
we loved the same music; took pleasure in the same pur- 
suits, and when she was taken away I felt that God was 
cruel, that he had dealt unjustly. Mother tried to reason 
with me, but for a long time I was deaf to it all, but now 
„ I feel that He has forgiven me, and I do not fear to meet 
Him. I am getting hoarse, and will stop talking and try 
to sleep, for I have along journey before me to-morrow. 
Poor father! he will find me changed. I wish that I had 
prepared him for the worst." 

It was a sad group that gathered around Blanche Ward- 


30 


A WAITING HEART 


leigh in the school-room the next morning to say good- 
bye. Not an eye was dry, for Blanche was a favorite 
with them all. Even Estella cried. The girls looked on 
in amazement, for never had Estella been known to shed 
tears. Mr. Wardleigh was a kind, fatherly old gentle- 
man, loving his child almost to idolatry, for she was his 
only remaining daughter, one other having been swept 
away just as she was budding into womanhood, by con- 
sumption. Blanche was sixteen, and had left them in 
the very bloom of health. It was thought that she, at 
least, would escape the destroyer. A few weeks before 
she had taken a severe cold, attended by a violent cough. 
She had not acquainted her parents with it, thinking it 
would wear off, but she daily grew weaker, and on sum- 
moning a physician, he pronounced it quick consump- 
tion. Mr. Wardleigh looked on his daughter with a sor- 
rowful heart, and although he talked cheerfully of her 
recovery, it was more to cheer Blanche, who was despond- 
ing, than from any hope he entertained of it himself. 
Madame De Bruler had no trouble in quieting her pupils 
that day; all were as still as if some great sorrow had be- 
fallen each one of them, and when recitations were over, 
they went to their rooms, or silently wended their way 
home. 

“ What is the matter?” asked Eugene of Estella, as she 
and Cora entered the house on their return from school. 

“ Nothing; why?” 

“ You looked so serious.” 

“Is that anything strange?” 

“ Yes; you are quiet enough always, but to-night you 
are sad, fair cousin. Tell me all about it, I am ready to 
offer sympathy.” 

“ Thank you; I do not need it.” 

“Guess what I have for you, snowdrop?” said Dr. 
Brainard, addressing Cora, as he stood with his arm rest- 
ing on the mantel, gazing down on the trio. 


A WAITING HEART 


81 


Cora looked up, saw a smile play around hie lips, 
then her eyes brightened. “A letter from father I 
know.” 

“ Ah, you are good at guessing! Here.” 

Cora took the letter and darted from the room. In 
a little while she reappeared, her face beaming with 
joy. 

•“ Oh, doctor! he is so much better, and has met with 
a pleasant party of Americans in Chester.” 

"‘I am glad to hear it, and glad, too, that he is safe 
across the ocean.” 

“Did your friend. Miss Wardleigh, return home to- 
day?” asked Eugene of Cora. 

“ Yes. It was quite a struggle for her to say good-bye 
to us. I never saw' any one so attached to her school- 
mates. And her father was so kind.” 

“Did you ever see him, Eugene?” asked Estella. 

“Yes.” 

“ Does his son resemble him?” , 

“No. He is a blonde, with perfect features, but not 
the least feminine in appearance. The ladies, I believe, 
think him very handsome, and he is such a good; honest 
fellow, that he is a favorite with all. But this admira- 
tion has not made him the least conceited or vain, and 
he is very intelligent, too. He bore off the first honors 
at college. 

“I bought you a new book to-day, Estella — entitled 
‘Ferndale/ It was written by George Graham. He 
lived here a few years ago. Don't you remember that 
pale, slight artist, that had such sorrowful-looking blue 
eyes?” 

“ Yes, I have been at his studio, but what has become 
of him? I tliink I have not seen him for two years.” 

“He is in Philadelphia. Grant Wardleigh told me 
not long ago, that he was engaged to his sister Grace, 
when she died. Speaking of Grant and his sister last 


32 


A WAITING HEART . 


night, reminded me of it to-day while in a bookstore, and 
I bought it, thinking you might like to read it.” 

“ I shall, most assuredly, since I know who the char- 
acters are.” 

“ Now, Estella, read us ‘ Ferndale,' ” said Eugene, after 
tea. “I feel just in the humor to listen. Uncle, don't 
you want to hear Ferndale '? ” 

“ I have no objections.” 

They were all much interested in the story, when Mrs. 
Brainard swept into the room, dressed for an evening 
party. She wore an amber-colored silk with a bertha of 
black lace, while jewels flashed from her neck and arms. 
She looked beautiful, and she knew it. 

“You areas radiant as a star, aunt,” said Eugene, 
gayly. 

“Are you going out again to-night?” asked her hus- 
band. - 

“ Yes, you need not think because you stay at home, 
that every one else must. I would not miss Mrs. Fay's 
party for anything. Eugene, be so kind as to see if the 
carriage is at the door.” 

A look of pain crossed the doctor's face, he sighed, set- 
tled back in his easy-chair, but said nothing. 

“ The carriage is ready, aunt. Allow me to see you to 
it,” said Eugene. 

“Now, Estella, go on with your reading,” said he, 
coming back and seating himself by her side 

The book was half finished, and Estella was dipping 
into a new chapter, when the doctor looked at his watch, 
and said: 

“It is ten o'clock. Time we were all asleep. Come, 
Estella, put up your book until to-morrow.” 

“Graham is an easy, pleasant writer, don't you think 
so, Estella?” said Eugene. 

“Yes,” said Estella, “and if his life furnished the 
material for the book, I pity him.” 


A WAITING HEART . 


38 


“ So do I,” said Cora. “It must be terrible to have 
the cup of happiness dashed so suddenly from one’s lips. 
Oh., it seems to me that I could not live, if ever I loved 
any one as devotedly as he did Gertrude in the story, and 
have that person taken away.” 

“ You know, Cora, some one tells us, 

“ ‘ Life must long be borne ere sorrow breaks the chains.’ ” 

“ But I would wish to die. It would not be so hard, I 
think, after one has grown old, to lose those we loved, 
for we would know that there would soon be a happy re- 
union on the other side.” 

“ What do you think about it, uncle?” asked Eugene. 

“ I think, too, it would be hard to see any we loved in 
their youth and beauty, laid in the grave; but it would 
be harder to live and see love grow cold, for in their graves 
we would know their love went with them. But to live 
side by side for years as though oceans rolled between, is 
far worse. God forbid, Cora, that you should live to suf- 
fer from either,” said he, with emotion, forgetting, ap- 
parently, the picture of his own life conveyed in his words; 
but he remembered in a minute, and turning from them 
with a hasty “good-night,” left the room. 

A strange, gloomy feeling came over Cora. She knew 
not what occasioned it, whether the book or his words, - 
but she could not shake it off, do what she would. Was 
it a foreboding of evil in store for her? she asked herself. 
Ah! she little knew, sitting there, that the two she called 
her friends would be the means of making her life even 
more pitiful than the hero’s in “Ferndale!” 

“Next week I will be seventeen years old,” said Estella 
to Cora, as she entered her room, “and I have made up 
my mind to give a party. Eugene has promised to make 
all arrangements; he has good taste and will make it a 
success. Nina Kivers gives a party to-morrow night. 
Eugene is going. He told me last evening that he had 
been corresponding with her for a long time. I wonder 


u 


A WAITING HEART 


what mother would think if she knew that! Eugene is a 
great flirt, and I would laugh if he were caught at last. 
Nina, at one time, was a special favorite of his, and she 
is prettier now than she used to be. I would be very glad 
to find it true, for perhaps then I would have some 
peace, and my ambitious mamma would cease her schem- 
ing." 

Why did Cora’s heart so suddenly stand still, at Estella’s 
words? What was it to her where he went or whom he 
loved? He was only her friend, she reasoned, and what 
else was she to expect? Oh, why did her heart beat so 
painfully — did she love him? 

“Why, Cora! what is the matter? You are as pale as 
a ghost,” said Estella. 

“ I do not feel well,” said she, turning away, for fear 
Estella’s eyes would read the truth. 

“ Stay with me to-night, please.” 

Cora complied with her request, and under the cover of 
darkness hid from her the truth that was gnawing at her 
heart; but far into the night, while Estella thought she 
was asleep, she lay there by her side, battling with the 
feeling her words had awakened. 


CHAPTER IY. 

i ‘ I loved him deeply, fondly, for I was half a child, 

And his spirit held a mastery mysterious and wild. 

I saw him as a being unrivaled on the earth, 

And dreamed not in my earlier days of deeper truth and 
worth.” 

“May I come in, doctor?” asked Cora, opening the 
library door. 

“Certainly, snowdrop. I thought you had gone out 
with Eugene and Estella. Are you not interested in the 
party, too?” 

“Yes, sir, but I preferred staying home to-day. I 
have just received a letter from father. He is in Rome, 


a Waiting Meant. 


35 


and thinks of returning soon,” said she, sitting down on 
an ottoman at his feet. 

“ And take you away, my sunshine? I am almost self- 
ish enough to wish that lie would prolong his stay. How 
the sight of your face carries me back to the past, when 
your mother, father and I, were playmates. You are 
very much like your mother, Cora. You have the same 
brown curls and blue eyes, the same loving disposition. 
She was a great favorite with us all — we went to her to 
settle our disputes. Your father was a great, handsome 
fellow, then, and boy- like we were fierce rivals. I went 
away to study a profession, at last, and while I was gone, 
Hugh carried off the prize. There is the office bell! I 
am sorry to leave you, Cora, but a doctor has never a 
minute to call his own. On the table are some books I 
bought to-day. Look at them; perhaps they will interest 
you.” 

Cora did not look at the books, but she bowed her head 
on her hands and murmured: 

“ Oh, if I were only in my own home, I could forget 
him then; but it is so hard here! He was so cruel — no, 
not cruel either, for. he was not to blame. He has only 
asked for friendship, and I have given him love! What 
would he think of me, if he knew it?” and she resolved 
to conquer her love — yes, if it killed her! 

“Cora!” 

That word called her to her senses; she dashed away 
her tears and sprang to her feet. 

“Cora, where are you? My dress has just been sent 
home — come and see it.” 

“I never saw you so animated: What has come over 
you ?” 

“You are surprised. I am a Brainard most of the 
time, to-day, a Tracy — caught the spirit, perhaps!” said 
she, laughing. “Mother is anxious that I shall look ex* 


36 A WAITING HEART. 

oeedingly well, to-morrow night, you know for what pur- 
pose. Eugene would be amused if he knew it; but look 
at my dress, is it not beautiful?” 

“Very; that shade of blue suits your complexion so 
well.” 

“ You don’t know what you have missed by not coming 
with us. Miss Cora,” said Eugene, meeting her as she 
came from Estella’s room. Then catching sight of her 
tear-stained face, he exclaimed, “ You have been crying!” 

“ Have you received bad news from your father?” ask- 
ed Estella. 

“No.” And she hastily left the room, for fear he 
would read her thoughts. 

The night for the party came, and very beautiful did 
Estella look in heavy blue corded silk, with folds of misty 
lace covering the gleaming white of her fair shoulders. 
She wore no ornaments; only a bunch of pink rose-buds 
caught the lace on her bosom. Her rounded arms were 
bare, and almost as white as the gloves she wore. Her 
hair was braided simply and wound around her head in a 
way that showed well her classic brow. She looked a 
queen as she stood there receiving her guests, in her quiet, 
.stately way. 

Mrs. Brainard standing in the door, richly attired in 
S pale green silk, her dark hair looped up with scarlet 
I berries, thought Eugene could not fail to be impressed 
with Estella’s beauty, nor would he prefer that silly chit 
over there, thought she, glancing contemptuously at Cora, 
who wore only a plain white cashmere dress, a bunch of 
purple violets that nestled among her brown curls, and a 
tiny bouquet on her bosom. 

“Well, aunt, what do you find so interesting in Cora? 
You have been watching her for the last five minutes,” 
said Eugene, touching her shoulder. 

“I was only wondering,” she replied, “why Cora is so 


A WAITING HEART. 


37 


different from Estella. See how awkward she looks, and 
how she blushes, talking to Mr. Lingle.” 

“Do you think her awkward? I am surprised. She 
is perfectly charming when she blushss. Men think that 
women's greatest charm; the poets have celebrated it in 
verse.” 

“Trash!” 

“Who, the poets? Ah, aunt, I see you feel disposed 
to contradict me, so I will go and relieve Cora from that 
gentleman’s attentions, and ask her to sing.” 

“What impudence!” she thought, when he had left 
her. “If it were not for insulting her father, she should 
not stay another hour in this house!” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Lingle, but we want Cora to sing,” 
said Eugene, offering her his arm. 

She took it with a look of relief, but said: “ I cannot 
sing, indeed I cannot, before all this company.” 

“Not even to please me?” said he, looking down into 
her face. 

She turned away her face from his burning gaze, but 
did not reply. 

“ Come, sing the piece you did for me the first day that 
I met you.” 

After the first few notes, a hush fell over them all; you 
could have heard a pin drop in any part of the room. 
Loud and clear the song rang out, and then died away in 
low, passionate wails that filled their eyes with tears, so 
suggestive were they of loved faces hid forever under the 
sod — dead hopes that had burned down to cold, white 
ashes, never more to be revived — broken friendships long 
since forgotten — blighted loves that have trailed their 
heart-strings low in the dust. The song was ended, she 
arose from the piano, while compliments rained upon her 
from all sides. Blushing under the smile Eugene gave 
her, she went out and hid herself among the flowers in 


38 


A WAITING HEART. 


the conservatory. “Does he love me?” she murmured to 
herself, and as if in response came the tender voice — 

“ Cora.” 

She was startled, but turned not away; she knew whose 
voice it was, and her face only bent lower over the bloom' 
ing fuschia. 

“ Cora,” he repeated, “you know why I have sought 
you here,” and the two white hands were imprisoned m 
one of his own, while the other drew her toward him. “ I 
love you! Can I, dare I hope it will be returned?” 

She did not question if he loved another. Estella, her 
warning, the world, all were forgotten. She did not an- 
swer, but lower and lower sank her head until it rested 
on his shoulder — rested there in perfect faith, confidence 
and love. 

Eugene Tracy was intbxicated with delight. He folded 
his arms around the slender form, and kissed passionately 
the coral, quivering mouth. It was so sweet, so consoling 
to his vanity, that she, so young, so pure, had given him 
her hearths love, and for the time he tried 'to persuade him- 
self that he was in earnest. 

Some one struck up a wild, gay waltz. It brought Cora 
out of her world of bliss. She sprang from his arms, and 
like a frightened deer, rushed from his presence, never 
stopping until she had gained her own room and locked 
the door behind her. Then she threw herself in a chair, 
and, foolish girl, cried for pure joy. 

Eugene remained where she had left him a few min- 
utes, smiling to himself, and softly stroking his mustache, 
then went out and joined Estella. 

“ I have hardly had a chance to speak to you this even- 
ing, my cousin. You are looking well. How many 
hearts have you won, how many broken?” 

“Perhaps I did not consider any hearts here worth 
breaking or winning.” 

“ Indeed! I am afraid that the youth^ beauty and wit 


A WAITING HEART 


559 

gathered here have been poorly appreciated. You have 
queened it right royally, though. By the way, what has 
become of your friend, Cora?” 

“ Oh, I don't know. I have not seen her since she 
sang for us. There, some one is calling me! Excuse me, 
please.” 

Eugene took a card from his pocket, wrote a few words 
on it, then went out in the hall, and gave it to a servant 
to take to Cora's room. 

Cora hastily wiped away her tears as some one knocked 
at the door. She opened it, took the card and read: 
“ Come down immediately, I have reason for it.” 

“ Can I go?” she asked herself. “Can they read the 
secret in my face?” She walked down the stairs, her 
heart almost failing her as she came into the lighted hall. 

Eugene met her at the parlor door, and taking her arm 
in his own, said: “I thought it best to tell you to come 
down, for my aunt wants me to marry Estella, and if she 
missed you, she might suspect my designs and treat you 
unkindly. l r ou see I have thought only of you. I care 
naught for myself, and for your sake it will be better to 
keep it a secret until your father's return. You do noc 
care?” 

“ No, not as long as you desire it, said she, looking up 
fondly into his face.” 

“Thank you, my pet. Let me introduce you to Gerald 
Lingle; he is a young lawyer, but not at all like his 
father,” and he swept her aw r ay in the crowd. 

It was far into the night; the guests had all departed, 
and all was as quiet as the dead. Up in her room on a 
rug before the grate sat Cora, her fair, dimpled cheek 
resting on her hand, and the dove-like eyes were gazing 
at the glowing anthracite as if conjuring up some beauti- 
ful picture of the future. She was very happy; her heart 
beat tumultuously as she thought of his kiss, of his words 
of love. He was so good, so noble, she thought, and he 


40 


A WAITING HEART. 


had honored her with his love. Oh, she could never be 
grateful enough for it all! Yesterday she was so misera* 
ble, and to-night there was such a bright transformation 
that she almost doubted its reality. 

One, two, three silver strokes from the clock in the 
room below. She started up, half surprised at the late- 
ness of the hour, and going to the mirror brushed out the 
soft, brown curls. “ If Estella could see me now,” said 
she, smiling to herself, “she would have no cause to 
speak of my pale cheeks. Oh, love — love, what a wonder- 
ful invigorator thou art!” 

She hastily disrobed, stopping to kiss the card she drew 
from her pocket, with its few penciled words, then laid 
her head upon the pillow, her mind full of happy 
thoughts. 

Silly, you think her? Ah, yes! but then it is a glori- 
ous thing to be silly sometimes. You who have grown 
old and weary, scorched with the noontide sun that beats 
over your rugged pathway, smile scornfully at this; but 
smile as you may, you can look back on the past years and 
see yourself, not as you are now, but fair and young, your 
heart beating with ardent hopes, your brain filled with 
the consciousness of your love! Were they not happy 
days? No fancied Eden was ever fairer in your eyes. 

Cora descended somewhat reluctantly to her late break- 
fast the next morning, and her heart sank as she entered 
the room. Eugene gave her a frigid good-morning; Mrs. 
Brainard looked at her sharply, and Estella scarcely no- 
ticed her at all. The doctor was the only one who was 
cordial in his greeting. They had often met her before in 
this manner, but it had not troubled her; but now she 
felt as if they knew all, and were silent toward her on that 
account. She sat down to the table, but scarcely touched 
anything. 

Eugene looked at her, and laughingly said; “ Late 
hours do not agree with you, Miss Cora,” 


A WAITING HEART 


41 


“ What is the matter now, Cora?” asked the doctor. 
“ No appetite? You did not rise early enough. Stay- 
ing up late at night is bad.” 

“Eugene, will you drive us to school this morning? 
It is very late, and I am afraid some of our classes will 
have recited,” said Estella. 

“ Certainly, cousin. Like the knights of old, I am al- 
ways at the service of the fair.” 

“You will soon be through school; then what do you 
propose to do — travel?” asked Eugene, of Estella as they 
drove along. 

“ I would like to, but will no doubt sacrifice myself on 
the altar of mammon, as my mother has before me. A 
woman’s chief aim is supposed to be a rich husband, a 
brown-stone front, in fact, all wherewith to make a 
fashionable show, and shall I prove an exception to the 
rule?” 

“ Well, such a life would not make you unhappy.” 

A strange smile passed over her face, a smile he could 
not fathom. He did not know that under the cold, calm 
exterior, there glowed a heart that all the fashionable 
world cou' not satisfy. Like Maud Muller, 

4 ‘ a vague unrest 

And a nameless longing filled her breast, 

A wish she hardly dared to own 

For something better than she had known.” 

She was no enthusiast. Hers was a nature patient, 
persevering, exacting. She never rushed wildly into any- 
thing; cool deliberation marked every action. She could 
live on independent of any one or anything, but she would 
not be happy. 

“Well, here we are at the seminary,” said Eugene, and 
then, as he lifted Cora out of the buggy, softly pressed 
her hand, and whispered in her ear, “ Good-bye, my 
darling.” 

The hypocrite! Did he think of the fond hopes he was 


42 


A WAITING HEART 


blighting? One would have thought, at least, that he 
did not care, had they seen the amused look on his face 
as he drove away. 

Arrived at the house, he lounged into the room where 
his aunt was sitting, reading. 

“ May I smoke ?” he asked, taking a cigar from his 
pocket. 

"" Certainly!” Then closing her book, she looked at 
Eugene and said: "" I half suspect you made love to Cora 
last night.” 

"" Well, what if I did?” asked he, insolently. 

‘"Nothing; only I would say, be careful! Mr. Benoir 
is not a man to be trifled with.” 

Eugene took the cigar from his mouth, and softly 
laughed. 

“Aunt, you are too ready to jump at conclusions. 
Why can I not admire Cora without loving her? I am 
not so susceptible as to fall in love with every pretty face 
I meet.” 

“Don’t do anything you may regret, then.” 

""My life itself is one long regret,” he said, ruefully. 

""Iam surprised. I thought one must have a con- 
science in order to regret. Youl I supposed, had parted 
long ago with anything so troublesome.” 

"" Now, aunt, don’t go to sermonizing, for Estella does 
enough of that, and I am no logician.” 

"" Pardon me,” said she, mildly. "" May I ask if you 
enjoyed the party last night?” 

""Yes,” — then after a time — ""has not Gerald Lingle 
been admitted to the bar?” he asked, lazily puffing his 
cigar. 

"" Yes, three or four years ago. He is said now to be a 
very talented lawyer. Did you notice how attentive he 
was to Cora last night? I suppose he is well aware of the 
handsome fortune she possesses/' 


A WAITING HEART . 


48 


- “ Do you think that the attraction?” he asked, laugh- 
ing. 

“Certainly. It could not be her face. She is anything 
but a beauty.” 

“ How jealous you women are of each other!” 

“Jealous?” 

“ Yes; I never knew a woman but could find some 
blemish in another,, even were she as beautiful as Venus, 
or as graceful as Hebe.” 

“You are mistaken. I would not wish to pluck one 
leaf from her crown.” 

“.Well, aunt, you always knew I was a graceless scamp, 
so it is not worth while to mind me. Heigh-ho! Eleven 
o’clock. I have made an engagement at that hour. Pray 
excuse me.” 

Taking up his hat, he commenced whistling, and left 
the room. 

“ Yes, he speaks the truth for once, when he says he is 
a graceless scamp. He has respect for neither youth nor 
age. If it were not for his fortune, he should not trouble 
me long,” said she, half aloud. 

“ What is the matter?” asked the doctor, kindly, as he 
entered the room, stood by his wife’s chair, and looked 
down into the face that had an ugly frown on the broad 
forehead. 

“Nothing that concerns you, sir!” was the haughty 
reply. 

He took no notice of the tone in which this was said, 
but asked: 

“ Is it nothing that I can help?” 

“ Nothing that you can help,” and she arose from her 
chair to leave the room, a weary look on her face, as if 

“Stay one moment,” as she reached the door, “I have 
something to say to you.” 

She stopped, her brow contracting, and said, half im- 
patiently, half angrily; “'Well?” 


44 


A WAITING HEART 


“ I am afraid Eugene has made Cora believe he loves 
her. I know not if he is in earnest, but even if he were 
Hugh Benoir would never wish his daughter to marry 
such a man, and as she is left in our care, 1 wish you would 
see that he carries this on no further.” 

“ I am afraid the mischief is already done, for Cora, I 
think, loves him. I see only one alternative, and that is, 
to send her away.” 

“I could not do it, even if I felt so disposed. If that 
is your opinion, I have nothing more to say,” said he, 
leaving the room. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ Be not afraid! 

Tis but a pang and then a thrill, 

A fever fit and then a chill, 

And then an end of human ill, 

For thou art dead !” 

The soft breezes of the Sunny South swept through 
the room, playing with the lace curtains, and now and 
then lifting the invalid’s dark hair gently from her burn- 
ing brow, as she lay on a couch by the low, open window. 
Blanche Wardleigh was dying. For the last two weeks 
she had seemed more like her old self, but she suddenly 
grew worse, and had passed a sleepless night. On sum- 
moning the doctor, he looked at her a moment, and then 
said: 

“ She has but a few hours to live.” 

“ Shall I send for my parents?” Grant asked. 

“ It would do no good; they could not get here before 
the end. I will leave you a cordial to give her whenever 
she grows faint. I will come in again, but will not re- 
main with you, for you will want no stranger to look on 
her last hours.” 

Grant sat down by his sister to await the “ grim mes- 
senger,” She looked like one dead — her eyes were sunk- 


A WAITING HEART. 


in 


en, her lips and cheeks colorless, and her hands almost 
transparent. She had changed greatly in the last few 
weeks. One could hardly have recognized in the wreck 
that lay there, the Blanche of other days. Grant looked 
at her sorrowfully, as he clasped her frail hands. It was 
so hard to have his last — his only sister, die/'’ 

“ Grant,” said she, turning her large, dark, restless 
eyes toward him, “what did the doctor tell you?” 

“ He told me, little sister, that you have but a few 
hours to live,” said he, kissing her brow tenderly. “ Are 
you afraid to go?” 

“ No, Grant, but if I could only see father and mother 
it would take away half the pain of dying. I had hoped 
I could breathe my last in the dear old home where I first 
opened my eyes. After I am dead, take me back; let me 
rest beside Grace in the old church-yard. Grant, please 
raise me a little on my pillow, my breath is so short, and 
I have much to say to you before I go. How glad I am, 
my darling brother, that you are with me,” said she, her 
voice 'dying away almost inaudibly, and her dark eyes 
closing. 

He gave her a spoonful of the cordial, and then gently 
fanned her until she revived. 

“ Shall I call the nurse?” he asked, when she opened 
her eyes. 

“No, I want no one but you. Get a sheet of paper 
and a pencil, I want to give all my friends something .’ * 

“ Now, I want to talk about Cora Benoir,” said she, 
after Grant had written down what she desired. “ Her 
last letter lies in that drawer. I was too weak to answer 
it, you must do it for me. Grant. Tell her how I 
died; that I thought of her in my last hours, and send 
her my Bible; tell her to read it sometimes for my sake. 
Poor Cora, her life is full of sorrow, and I am afraid she 
forgets God sometimes. I trust that you may meeo her, 
for I know that you would love her. Tell father and 


46 


A WAITTXG HR ART. 


mother it was so hard to die away from them, and that 
it would have been sweet to have lived for their sake; but 
tell them not to grieve for me, for it will not be long until 
we meet again. You, my brother, have perhaps a long 
life before you, and oh, live to do good! Be kind to the 
poor in our little village; and Grant, be not only true 
to yourself, but to your God, so that when you are called 
to cross the dark river of death, } t ou will not be afraid.” 

He raised her in his arms, laid her head upon his 
breast. “ Rest here, my sister,” said he, in a broken 
voice. 

She looked up in his face with a grateful smile, then 
closed her eyes and was silent. 

One, two, three hours dragged slowly by. The doctor 
came, laid his hand on her broAv, on which the death, 
damp was already gathering. “ Poor child! you will not 
suffer much longer,” said he, when she begged them to 
place her by the open window. 

“The air is so hot, it stifles me,” she whispered. 

“It is not warm, my sister.” 

v Then this is death, my brother?” 

“ Yes, it is death, Blanche.” 

She spoke no more after that, but lay quietly in his 
arms, while he fanned her. 

Night settled over the city, but still she lay in his arms. 
Toward midnight a violent paroxysm of coughing seized 
her, and she fell back in his arms with a shiver — dead. 

He laid her gently on the bed, called the nurse, and 
then went out into the night and paced up and down the 
long hotel veranda, with bowed head and tears running 
down his face. He had seen Grace die, but this was his 
youngest, his pet sister. It was so terrible to be left alone, 
to see her, who but a short time ago was so full of life, 
suddenly wither and die as a flower. How could he tell 
his parents that she was dead! But it must be done, and 
taking his hat, he went into the office and sent the mes- 


A WAITING HEART. 


41 


Sage that in a short time would sadden the little house- 
hold her presence had brightened. 

The morning sun arose from behind the trees, danced 
over hill and valley, darted through the half-closed shut- 
ters of the great white house on the hill, and rested for a 
moment on the marble face of the dead. Later, it threw 
its beams over the group gathered around the grave in the 
old church-yard, where Blanche Wardleigh was to sleep 
until time “ should be no longer. ” The minister who had 
watched her youthful feet from going astray; the class 
that she, Sabbath after Sabbath, had instructed; the poor 
that she with her bounty had helped; the stricken parents; 
the bereaved brother — all were there to pay a last tribute 
to their loved dead. Ah! the sun in all its course looked 
down on no sadder sight. 

Sorrowfully the group wended their way homewa’rd. 
The mother looked upon her son, and prayed that God ; n 
his infinite ‘mercy would spare her last, her only child. 

He must have divined her thoughts, for he looked down 
in her face, and drawing her arm tenderly within his 
own, said: 

“I will try and fill their place, mother.” 

“ Grant, have you answered Cora Benoir’s letter?” ask- 
ed Mrs. Wardleigh, a few days after the funeral. 

“No, but I was thinking of doing so.” 

“ Perhaps it will be best not to delay it longer, for she 
may feel anxious about Blanche. She little thinks Blanche 
is in her grave. How they loved each other! Never did 
I receive a letter but it mentioned her name. I hope that 
I may meet Miss Benoir some day; I should like to thank 
her for her kindness to my poor child.” 

Grant went to his room, and wrote to Cora, telling her of 
Blanche's death; of her words, and the Bible she left her: 
then of his mother, and the interest she had taken in 
her, and then thanked her for what she had been to his 


48 


A WAITING HEART . 


sister. It was a painful task, and he gave a sigh of relief 
as he folded his letter, directed and sealed the Bible, and 
sent them to the office. 

“What is the matter?” asked Mrs. Brainard, coming 
into the library, and finding Cora crying. 

“Blanche Wardleigh is dead.” 

“ Who is Blanche Wardleigh? — oh, I remember now — 
one of your schoolmates.” 

“ What were you saying?” Estella asked, as she came 
into the room. 

“ Blanche Wardleigh is dead,” replied her mother. 

“ Oh, Coi J when did she die?” she asked, eagerly. 

“ At midnight, on the first of the month. I have just 
received a letter from her brother; read it.” 

Estella read the letter through, but not a feature 
moved, not a tear stole down her cheek. She rested her 
face on her hand, and gazed out of the window, with the 
least tinge of sadness in her eyes. 

Eugene Tracy entered the room, stood by her chair; 
but she did not heed him, so wrapped was she in her 
thoughts. 

“ ‘ What has come over the spirit of your dream/ 
fair lady?” 

She turned quickly, her face showing how unwelcome 
his presence was, but said: 

“ Cora has just received a letter from Grant Wardleigh. 
Blanche is dead,” then arose and left the room. 

“ Cora, may I come in?” she asked, a minute after, 
tapping at her door. 

Cora opened the door, her eyes red with weeping. 

She handed her back the letter, put her arms around 
her, kissed her, and then left the room, and Cora knew 
that she had her sympathy, silent though the demonstra- 
tion had been. 


A WAITING HEART . 


49 


“ Where is Cora?” asked the doctor of his wife, coming 
into the room where she sat that evening. 

“ In her room. She has heard that one of her school- 
mates is dead, and she feels very badly about it.” 

“ I have just received a letter from her father, he will 
be home soon. He has found a daughter of an old friend 
in France. She is living with an old aunt, who is very 
infirm; she can’t live much longer, and when she dies, 
this little French girl, Minnie Heath — I believe that is 
what he calls her — will have no protector, so he is going 
to bring her home with him.” 

“ Has Miss Heath a fortune?” 

“ He did not say.” 

“ Bid Mr. Benoir say when he would sail for home?” 

“Yes, in three weeks.” 

“ Thank goodness! I will soon be rid of the puritan,” 
said she to herself; then aloud; “I don’t think it neces- 
sary to speak to Eugene in regard to Cora, for you know 
she will soon be under her father’s care, and, rest 
assured, he will have no opportunity of seeing her then.’ 

“ I will do as you say. God knows I have tried to do 
my duty; but I fear I have most miserably failed!” 

“What an ado you make about nothing! His flirting 
will not kill her. She may suffer severely for a time, but 
she will get over it.” 

“ I will never forgive Eugene if I find he has deceived 
her.” 

“ She ought not to have been so silly as to have believed 
him.” 

“ How did she know lie was untrue? He is an adept 
at hiding his faults.” 

“ You could not be more concerned if she were your 
own daughter,” said she, warmly. 

“You must remember she is the only child of the dear- 
est friend I have on earth, and her happiness does con- 
, cern me almost as much as if she was my own daughter,” 


50 


A WAITING HEART 


*' Perhaps, had you said she was dearer to you for the 
mother’s sake, rather than the father’s, it would hare 
been nearer the truth,” said she, scornfully. 

“ My friendship for her was such that it could not hurt 
either you or I — and ) r ou know it.” 

“ There are a great many things 1 ought to know that 
I do not,” she said, spitefully. 

He did not reply, but gazed down into the fire. Who 
could blame him if a vision came before his mind of a 
face exceedingly fair, with mild blue eyes and soft brown 
curls — a face that had smiled upon him in his boyhood, 
but that now was laid beneath the sod. Ah! did she who 
sat opposite think of the grief she had caused the noble 
heart that had always been loyal to her? She had it in 
her power to make his life a happy or an unhappy one; 
but she had chosen the latter — had caused lines of care 
to settle on his brow, and his hair to whiten ere its time. 

“ Guess what I have to tell you?” said Mrs. Brainard, 
when Eugene came in that evening. 

“ Tell me at oncq,; I never could guess.” 

“ Mr. Benoir will sail for home in three weeks; so, you 
see, your little flirtation is almost at an end, and if you 
are wise, you will drop it just where it is.” 

“ Please excuse me from discussing this theme; it is 
worn threadbare,” said he, and then left the room. 

“ Benoir is coming home,” said he, as he walked slowly 
down the street. “ Of course she will want to tell her 
father, and that will never do. Fudge! I have played m} T 
game until I am tired of it. I marry her? How ridi- 
culous! Believe I will leave here. I have been wanting 
to go to South America for some time, and as Frank Hale 
is going next week, I will join him. I hope Cora will 
have the good sense not to make a scene about it when I 
tell her.” 

<( 0ora,” said Eugene, going into the conservatory 


A WAITING HEART. 


51 


where she was training a spray of ivy over the window, 
“ I am going to South America. I leave here to-morrow 
to join my party. 

The spray of ivy fell from her hands, and she turned 
as if to question him, her face white with pain. 

‘‘ Don’t look at me in that way!” he exclaimed. “ I 
would have spared you this if I could, but my aunt gave 
me to understand last night, that your father would not 
allow me to marry you. He will be home soon, and 
could I bear to remain here without seeing you? No — 
no, Oora, it would make us both miserable, and I have 
concluded to go away so that you may forget me. Only 
speak one word — say that you forgive me.” 

She saw him now as he really was; saw the lie that lay 
underneath his words. Oh, could it be that her idol had 
fallen so low, her idol that she had worshiped as devoted- 
ly as the Pagan his clay image? Ah! the wheels of Jug- 
gernaut never crushed its victim more cruelly than his 
words crushed her. For a moment she looked at him, 
then said, calmly: “Forgive you — yes — and in a short 
time I shall forget you, for you are not worth remember- 
ing; but there is One that will not forget or forgive you,” 
and she walked proudly out of the room, leaving him as- 
tonished and ashamed. 

“ She has more spirit than I gave her credit for,” said 
he, stroking his mustache, with a perplexed look on his 
face. “Well, it is no use to worry about it, but I trust 
she will not look in that injured way at dinner.” 

Cora had too much pride to betray her feelings, and at 
dinner she met him cordially, and with as much ease as if 
it had been Esteila. None knew the struggle that was 
going on in her heart, nor of the sorrow over her fallen 
idol. “ Ah!” she thought, “I could have looked upon 
his dead face with less grief, for then my faith would 
have remained, unbroken; but he whom I thought so true 


52 


A WAITING HEART. 


lias fallen — fallen! oh, so low that 1 can have no pity, 
only contempt.” 

How that day passed she could never tell, but she felt 
that night when she looked back on the hours of torture, 
that she had been in a torment more terrible than all 
Dante’s imaginings. There was no milder way of ex- 
pressing the agony of the time. She had learned the 
bitter lesson that the world was not so fair nor friends so 
true as she had pictured them, and she shuddered as she 
thought of the darkness and loneliness of the future; for 
where maturity sees hope shining through the clouds, 
youth sees only despair. 

The first thing that met Cora’s gaze the next morning, 
as she descended the stairs, was Eugene’s trunks, ready 
strapped for his departure. In spite of the contempt she 
felt for him, her heart gave a great throb, and she clasped 
her hands tightly over her eyes, as if that would stay the 
thought that he was going away — going away from her 
forever! 

“Are you going to faint?” asked Estella, from the head 
of the stairs. 

The words banished the momentary weakness. She 
looked up with a slight smile on her face and said: “ That 
would be an impossibility just now. What would make 
me faint?” 

“ Those trunks.” 

“ I have seen just as formidable a row of them before.'" 

“ Confess, now, that you are ready to cry your eyes 
out because Eugene is going to leave us- you may as 
well.” 

“ I shall not confess anything of the kind.” 

“ Well, you are a puzzle! I have thought all the while 
you were very much in love with my cousin.” 

“People are very much mistaken sometimes,” said 
Cora, smiling. 

“ So they are. Come, let us go to breakfast.” 


A WAITING HEART. 


63 


Cora gave no outward sign of her sufferings,, with the 
exception of blanched cheeks and lips. The doctor gave 
a great sigh of relief as he saw her calmly say good-bye to 
Eugene, and he thought the shaft had not struck so deep 
after all. But could he have seen her a few minutes 
after, as she lay on the bed in her own room, and have 
heard the convulsive sobs that shook her, he would have 
thought differently. 

She arose at last, and, pushing back her hair, said: 

“ My life commences anew from this hour; the past 
shall be as a sealed book, and henceforth, though my path 
be always alone, I shall ever trust myself under the 
Father’s loving hand.” 

“ Cora, here is a letter from your father, the last one 
you will get from Europe,” said the doctor, coming into 
the room where Cora sat reading that evening. “ In a 
little while he will be with us again. I am very glad for 
your sake, Cora, but I shall give you up reluctantly, for I 
will be so lonely without your bright face. To-day you 
look wan and pale. What is the matter?” 

For a moment she was tempted to tell him all, then she 
thought his generous heart had enough to bear. She 
would not add to his burden, and she answered: 

“ Nothing is seriously the matter. I confess I am not 
in the best of spirits. I wonder what this Minnie Heath 
is like, and if I shall love her as I do Estella,” said she, 
changing the subject. “ Father does not say much about 
her. Perhaps he wishes to surprise me. I imagine she 
is quite a child, for he calls her a little girl. It will be 
pleasant to have her with me, I think.” 

“Yes, she can be to you as a younger sister.” 

“I believe you did not tell me when your father would 
sail,” said the doctor, as he was about leaving the room. 

“On the twenty-second, in the steamer Persia” 


i 


64 


.4 WAITING HEART. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ I cannot speak, tears so obstruct my words 
And choke me with unutterable joy.” 

“ Well, Cora, the Persia will arrive to-night. Is that 
what has given you rosy cheeks and a pleasant smile upon 
your lips?” asked the doctor of Cora, as she sat at the 
piano, idly drumming on the keys. 

“ Is that not enough, doctor? My heart never beat so 
jubilantly over anything as it does over his coming home. 
It has been a long, patient waiting, but my reward is to 
be great. Oh, doctor, how can I ever thank you for the 
good you have done my father!” said she, earnestly, with 
tears in her eyes. 

“ I did your father no good, it was the trip that has 
done it.” 

“But you recommended it. If it had not been for you, 
I would have selfishly preferred he had stayed.” 

“You bravely let him go, though, when you found it 
was for his good. I trust that you will not soon be 
separated from him again. You are going down to meet 
’your father to-night?” 

“ Certainly; nothing could keep me away.” 

“ Be ready to start at ten o’clock, then; I may not see 
you again before that time,” said the doctor, leaving the 
room. 

“ Wear a wrap of some kind, Cora, for it is very chilly 
out,” said the doctor, a little after nine, as he stood before 
the grate. “ Are you not going with us, Estella?” 

“ Mother is not well, you know. 1 will stay and re- 
ceive Mr. Benoir when he comes. He will remain with 
us a few days, will he not, father?” 

“ I want him to.” 

It was a beautiful night; the weaves rose and fell, glit- 
tering in the moonbeams. The white sails of the vessels 
along the wharf flapped in the wind and threw ghastly 


A WAITING HEART . 


55 


shadows on their decks. Cora walked up and down, her 
head burning and her heart in a perfect tumult. It seemed 
hours that she had been looking out on the water. 

“ What if the steamer were wrecked, and my father 
lost?” she asked herself. But just as the question arose 
in her mind, there was a great shout — the steamer was in 
sight. Cora almost held her breath, as nearer and nearer 
it came, plowing through the deep, up to the pier. “ Oh, 
if he were only there!” 

“ Is Mr. Benoir on board?” shouted the doctor. 

“ Yes, sir,” responded a gentleman. 

A tide of unspeakable joy welled up from her heart as 
she heard that familiar voice, and leaning her head on her 
hand, she thanked God for his goodness. 

“ Cora!” and in a moment she was clasped in his strong 
arms. 

“ Oh, father!” was all she could say. 

“This is my ward, Minnie Heath, my daughter,” said 
Mr. Benoir, turning to a young lady by his side. 

Cora smiled as she kissed her, for she thought of the 
little girl she had imagined her to be. She was rather 
below medium height, ic was true, but one glance at her 
face convinced Cora she was but little younger than her- 
self." 

“Mr. Benoir, please see that my trunks are all right, 
that porter is so stupid,” said Miss Heath. 

“This way, Miss Heath, the carriage is waiting,” said 
Cora, when Mr. Benoir had gone to do her bidding. 

“ Don't call me Miss Heath, call me Minnie, for I mean 
to ignore etiquette, and call you Cora.” 

“ That will please me; we are to be sisters, you know. 
Did you have a pleasant voyage?” 

“ Yes, and no. I was terribly sea-sick at first, but after 
that I had a very pleasant time. I was glad, though, to 
get on land again. ” 

“Now for home,” said the doctor, taking up the reins. 


56 


A WAITING HEART 


“ And this is New York, the birth-place of my father ? 55 
said Minnie to Cora. “I can hardly realize it. Poor 
father! If he could only have lived to come with me ! 55 
said she, a little sadly, and she sank back into the car- 
riage and relapsed into silence. 

Cora watched her. Hers was a face dark, bright and 
piquant; black eyes, that even in the moonlight looked as 
if they could dance with mischief; full red lips; a low 
forehead with jetty masses of black hair. Altogether, the 
face was prepossessing, and Cora knew that she should 
like her. 

“Here we are at home / 5 said the doctor, breaking the 
silence. “ Ladies, are you asleep ? 55 

Estella met them at the door, with a look of pleasure 
on her haughty face. 

“ How glad I am to see that you are looking so well , 55 
said she to Mr. Benoir. “ And you, I shall not meet as 
a stranger , 55 said she, after she had been introduced to Miss 
Heath, and stooped and kissed her. “ Mother told me to 
present her compliments, but she was not well enough to 
see you / 5 said she, leading the way to the parlor. 

Mr. Benoir and Dr. Brainard were as jovial as school- 
boys; they talked long, and almost forgot the ladies 5 
presence. 

Estella giew impatient: 

“ Cora, there is a possibility of us staying here all night, 
if we listen to them. It is very late, and we will retire. 
Miss Heath, I have given you the room adjoining Cora 5 s. 
Are you ready, Cora ? 55 

“Yes, as soon as I say godd-night to father / 5 and she 
bent over the back of his chair and kissed him. 

“ Dear me! I thought I should find every one so differ- 
ent here from what they are in France / 5 said Minnie, as 
they were about to retire — for girl-like, they had con- 
cluded to occupy the same room that night — “ but the 


A WAITING HEART . 6f 

only difference I can see is, that at one place they speak 
English, and at the other, French.” 

“ I was a little surprised to hear you speak such perfect 
English.” 

“I have had an English governess ever since I can re- 
member, and my father was an American, you know.” 

“ You all look so sad here,” said Minnie, after survey- 
ing herself in the glass for a minute. “ The doctor looks 
sad, and the mademoiselle looks sad, and you look sad. 
Are you unhappy?” 

“ Not any more so, I suppose, than the most of mor- 
tals.” 

Minnie hummed a line of a French song that Cora 
could not understand — then added she was sleepy, and 
would go to bed! and when Cora turned out the gas, she 
was far in the land of dreams. 

“Father is at home! oh, how much unhappiness 
that sweeps away!” thought Cora, as she laid her head 
upon the pillow. “ I would be perfectly happy, if it 
were not for Eugene. Oh, if he had only been true! 
Why can I not scorn him as he deserves to be scorned? 
why can I not crush out this hopeless love? I must 
arouse myself, must shake off this morbid feeling. I will 
bring myself to look upon my father as all in all, and it 
shall compensate for what I have lost. Mother, angel 
mother! help me, for now your child must share the com- 
mon lot — the lot of woman — suffering and tears!” 

The next morning, Mrs. Brainard met her guests with a 
cordiality that was quite unlike her, and no mother could 
have been more kind and attentive than she was to Cora. 
To Minnie she was merely polite, for there was something 
in her black eyes that kept her at a distance. 

“ Here, Cora, is your present,” said Mr. Benoir, after 
breakfast, clasping a diamond necklace around her neck, 
which flashed and scintillated in the sunlight. 


58 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Thank you, father. Oh, how beautiful!** said she, 
holding it up. 

“ I thought of you, Estella, while in Paris, and bought 
you a set of amethysts; will you accept them?** said Mr. 
Benoir. 

“ With pleasure,** said she, extending her hand for 
them. “ It was kind in you to remember me.** 

“ Cora, I will have the servants recalled, and we will 
go home to-day,** said Mr. Benoir. 

“ Just as you please, father.** 

“ Not going to leave us to-day? That is too bad! We 
expected you to stay a week with us, at least, and I have 
learned, myself, to look upon Cora as almost a daughter, 
and it will pain me to have her leave us,** said Mrs. 
Brainard, blandly. 

“ Yes, stay a few days with us, Hugh,** said the doctor, 
“ you have not rested from your journey yet.** 

“ Thank you, doctor, but we must go home some time, 
and it might as well be to-day. John and his wife are 
anxious to return, and the sooner we are settled the better 
we all shall feel. We do not live far apart, and I hope to 
have the pleasure of seeing you often at my house.** 

“ I don’t like the doctor’s wife nor his daughter,** said 
Minnie to Cora, that day. 

“ Why?” 

“ There is a patronizing air about his wife that makes 
me distrust her, and his daughter is an iceberg; I almost 
freeze when she is near me. I will be glad when we 
leave here.” 

“You are mistaken; Estella, though outwardly cold, is 
not so at heart. Your first impression is wrong.** 

“ I am a firm believer in first impressions,” replied 
Minnie. 

“One cannot always rely on them, though. I could 
give you an example from my own life, were it necessary,” 


A WAITING HEART. 


m 


said Cora, thinking of her first impression of Eugene 
Tracy. 

“ You could not convince me that I am wrong, and as 
it is unpleasant, we will say no more about it," 

“What a beautiful home yours is," said Minnie, that 
night, as she wandered through the parlors, library, or 
wherever fancy dictates. “ Is this your room?" said she, 
placing her hand on the knob of a door that would not 
open. 

“ Yo, it is mother’s; and it has not been opened since 
she died. Everything is just as she left it. Father says 
it shall always be left so." 

“ Pardon me," said Minnie, when she saw tears in 
Cora’s eyes, “ I did not mean to say anything to wound 
you." 

“ Your words did not hurt me, nor did they cause me 
to think of my mother, for she has been in my thoughts 
ail day. Come with me, and I will show you your room. 
There it is, just opposite my own. You need not sleep 
there unless you want to, for my room is always open to 
you. How are you pleased with it?" 

“ Very well; the view is beautiful from this window, 
and the room is light and airy. To-morrow I will hang 
my pictures here. I have no doubt I shall like Yew York 
in a short time, as well as Paris." 

“ I hope you will. You must feel lonely in a strange 
land." 

“ Yes, I do feel lonely, but I would not wish to go back. 
France has nothing to draw me to it now, for mother and 
father are both dead. I wish, though, their graves were 
where I could visit them. It was the only pang I felt 
when leaving there." 

“Did you not leave an aunt?" 

“Yes, but she is very distantly related. She was old 
and out of her mind, and will not miss me, and conse- 
quently, 1 felt no great sorrow in leaving her. I have 


00 


A WAITING HEART. 


but few friends in Europe. Father for several years had 
done little else but travel. I and my governess were most 
always with him; so you see, we stayed in no place long 
enough to make many acquaintances. Such a thing as a 
confidante I have never had, and I have always been left 
to follow my own inclinations, so don’t be surprised if you 
find me very naughty.” 

“ I don’t think you are very naughty,” said Cora, smil- 
ing, as she looked in her bright face. 

“Well, Minnie, are you going to school?” said Mr. 
Benoir, the next morning at breakfast. 

“ I suppose I ought to. Where do you go, Cora?” 

“ To Madame De Bruler. She is a French lady, and 
very kind; you would be sure to like her.” 

“ Well, if I find myself far enough advanced to go in 
your classes, I may, but if not, you may expect to see me 
remain at home. I am not the least ambitious; I love 
ease above everything else,” said she, lazily balancing her 
fork on her finger. “ I confess I do not like to study.” 

“ Go with me to-morrow, Minnie, and see how you like 
it,” said Cora. 

Minnie went, and when she found herself much further 
advanced than Cora, she concluded to finish there. “ That 
is, if I do not have to study too hard,” she laughingly said 
to Cora. 

Minnie became a general favorite at school, both with 
teachers and scholars; yet she was not perfection, for she 
was imperious, selfish and hasty. Offend her, and she 
would pierce you with arrows of sarcasm, and turn 
haughtily away from your explanations; but perhaps the 
next moment she would come to you all tears and forgive- 
ness, and you would find it impossible to resist her plead- 
ings. She was not a diligent student, but her memory was 
good, and she managed to glide through all with an ease 
that made the others envious. 

Her nature was naturally sunny; no cloud could long 


A WAITING HEART. 


61 


hang over her, though, when she did suffer, it was intense 
and deep. She was quick-tempered, but like a flash of 
lightning, in a moment it had come and gone. The house 
would have been lonely, and its silence almost unbearable, 
if it had not been for her; she was like a stray sunbeam, 
darting here and there in the most unheard-of fashion. 
W as Mr. Benoir in one of his melancholy moods — she 
would dance into the library, tear down his books, scatter 
his papers, or ask him questions until his melancholy had 
vanished. Was Cora grieving over the past — her mirth- 
inspiring laughter cheated her of half her sorrow; yet 
there were times when she would steal away from Minnie's 
searching gaze, and taking from a drawer a few crumpled 
notes, would read them over and over again, as if the con- 
tents were not already indelibly stamped upon her heart. 
But one day a new impulse seized her, and lighting a 
taper, she laid the notes on the marble hearth and touched 
them with it. In a moment they were in a blaze; the 
next, there only remained of the old love, memory and the 
white, dead ashes. Then and there she resolutely ban- 
ished him from her heart, and although Estella was a fre- 
quent visitor at the house, Cora was never known to speak 
to him. These visits were a source of annoyance to 
Minnie, for Estella had never won her friendship. There 
was something impenetrable about Estella, and it fretted 
Minnie because she could not understand her. To Cora’s 
oft-repeated question, “Why do you dislike her?" she 
would reply, “ I do not know but it is so." 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Who could blame had I loved that face 
Ere my eyes could twice explore her?” 
Anothek year had passed away, and Madame De 
Bruler pronounced the young ladies' education finished. 
The annual reception was given to introduce her pupils 


A WAITING HEART. 


B2 

— now no longer such — to the fashionable world. Coaches 
were rolling to and from the door. 

The sounds of gay music could be heard by the passer- 
by, and from the large balconied windows of the drawing- 
rooms might be seen group after group of beautiful 
women and distinguished looking men in the promenade. 
Everything was as it should be; the most fastidious could 
not fail to be satisfied, either as they looked at the taste- 
ful decorations of the rooms, the entertainment, the 
music, or the guests; therefore, knowing this, Madame 
De Bruler was delighted and at rest. She moved through 
her rooms, receiving and entertaining her guests with 
grace and ease. Of the young ladies who were at this 
season coming out into society under her auspices, one 
could hardly tell which of the three, Minnie Heath, Cora 
Benoir, or Estella Brainard, created the greatest sensa- 
tion, for all were universally admired. There was the 
statuesque Estella, 

“ With stately mien 

And glance of calm hauteur, 

Who moves a glance and looks a queen. 

All passionless and pure,’' 

and the gay and sparkling Minnie, flitting like a butterfly 
from flower to flower, and turning the beads of half the 
youthful Adonises gathered there. But little she cared 
for their love — she would have trampled their hearts as 
ruthlessly under her feet as she did the moss rosebuds in 
the carpet. She sought admiration, and received it to 
her heart’s content, for none failed to praise the bright, 
laughing face. Cora, though spoken of last, was not 
least. She had changed much in the last year, had lost 
her childishness and timidity as she matured into woman- 
hood. Her face was still pale, but when she smiled, it 
brightened all over, like Moore’s Nourmahal. Expression 
was her chief attraction; the color came and left her 
cheeks as shadows do in the sunlight. Soul was in all 


A WAITING HEART ' 63 

she did. It flashed through her words, mirrored itself in 
her dove-like eyes, like a blazing mass of pearls, bright 
and soft. While looking at her, one felt like asking, 
with the poet, 

“ Are there not deep, sad oracles to read 
In the clear stillness of that radiant face?’* 

Gerald Lingle had been a devoted admirer of Cora ever 
since Estella Brainard’s birthday party. To-night, as he 
was urging her to sing, Madame De Bruler came up to 
her, leaning on the arm of a gentleman. 

“ Allow me, my dear Cora/’ she said, “to introduce 
Mr. Wardleigh, your once loved schoolmate’s brother. I 
have no need to recall Blanche, for I am sure you have 
not forgotten her.” 

A rich flush mounted to Cora’s cheeks, and her eyes 
flashed with pleasure, as with a frank expression of joyful 
greeting, she extended her hand. 

Gerald Lingle drew back after he was introduced, for 
he knew she would wish to be alone with the brother of 
her dear, dead friend. She understood his kindness, and 
gave him a.smile of thanks. 

“I was hardly prepared to find you a tall, graceful 
woman. Miss Benoir,” said Grant Wardleigh. “From 
sister’s conversation I had imagined you to be almost a 
little girl, and I am afraid I have always thought of you 
as such.” 

“I was but a girl of fifteen when Blanche knew me,” 
she replied. 

After that their conversation drifted to other subjects, 
and as they swept up and down the promenade, her arm 
resting on his own, a soft enchanting grace floating around 
her, he felt 

“ As if his soul that moment caught 
An image it through life had sought.” 

She was a woman worth winning, he thought, and he 
would try for the prize. He spoke to her of his home, of 


64 


A WAITING HEAMT. 


travels, and of Blanche, whose young life was ended so 
soon, of her wish that they should be friends. 

“ And we will be, will we not?” he asked. 

“ Yes, for I have thought of you as a friend. Blanche 
spoke of you so often that you could not seem a stranger 
to me. Do you intend remaing in the city very long, Mr. 
Wardleigh?” she asked. 

“ Yes, I am going to practice law with Judge Glynn. 
You will allow me to call on you?” 

.“ I shall be happy to see you at any time.” 

“ Thank you, but I am afraid you will repent of the 
answer you have just given me, for I am a stranger here, 
and who knows but that my office will be found so dreary 
in the evenings, that I shall take advantage of it, and 
burden you with my presence frequently.” 

“ When I repent, you will know of it,” said Cora, 
laughing. 

“Who is that young lady talking to Mr. Lingle?” he 
asked. 

“My father’s ward, Minnie Heath. She is full of 
vivacity and wit. I will introduce you ; I know that you 
will like her. But there is my most iutimate friend, and 
in my opinion the belle of the room,” and she pointed to 
Estella, as she sat with her graceful Grecian head bent 
lightly forward, her massive golden braids wound carelessly 
around it, her chiseled features serenely beautiful, and 
her hands, white as alabaster, resting half clasped. 

Grant Wardleigh looked at her a moment in silence, 
then said: 

“ A snow cloud moving serenely through silent air — 
nothing more.” 

“ If you knew her as well as I, you would not have said 
so,” remarked Cora. 

“I may be mistaken, but looking at her now, she im- 
presses me as such, and faces are nearly always the indexes 
of the mind,” 


A WAITING HEART. 


65 


u Pardon Hje, Mr. Wardleigh, but we want Miss Cora 
to sing,” said Madame De Bruler. “ Oblige us this once, 
my dear.” 

Grant offered his arm, and conducted her to the piano. 

She sang a Spanish song fraught with passion and tears 
— joy and sorrow commingled, and a silence fell over them 
all as the clear, bird-like voice rang through the room. 

Grant Wardleigh was not a little astonished; he had 
never heard of her possessing such an exquisite voice. 

Cora arose from the piano, took his proffered arm, 
blushing slighly at the praise she received from those 
around her. 

“1 am lost in admiration! words of mine cannot do you 
justice,” said he, as they moved away. “ Your voice is 
grand, I ” 

“ There, say no more,” said Cora, interrupting him. 
* You'll make me vain.” 

“I am not afraid. One can be conscious of their 
powers without being vain, and yours is not a head that 
vanity could tnrn.” 

“Take care, you know not how frivolous I may be.” 

“ My sister knew you better, I think, than any one 
else. You have changed little, if any, since then; I can 
read it in your pure, open face. You are a true woman. 
I only wish I could believe all such,” said he, with a ten- 
der light in his fair eyes. 

That night as Cora stood before the mirror, taking the 
rosebuds from her hair, the image of Eugene Tracy and 
Grant Wardleigh floated before her mind; she compared 
the two, and weighed them well in the balance. Ah! 
how dwarfed, how insignificant he appeared by the side 
of Grant Wardleigh, with his nobleness and truth, for he 
was truthful she knew; every word had the ring of true 
metal. She wondered how she could have been so blind, 
so easily deceived in those days. “ And he is going to 
call. 1 am glad; it will be pleasant for Minnie,” she 


66 


A WAITING HEART. 


argued. But very little Minnie cared for any one; even 
then she lay back in a luxuriant chair, laughing softly to 
think what fools they had been to flutter around her. 
“ Who cares if the moth does get singed? — I don't !" she 
said to herself. 

Estella's mind was running almost in the same channel 
with Cora's. She, too, was thinking of Grant Ward- 
leigh. Ever since Cora had laid that letter in her hands, 
nearly two years ago, she had endowed Grant with all the 
virtues possible for man to attain — she had thought of 
him as a man vastly superior to the majority of his sex — 
and to-night, as she gazed upon his face, she felt that she 
had not over-rated his goodness. She knew that decep- 
tion was no part of his nature. But how he came to be 
the intimate friend of her cousin Eugene was a mystery to 
her. Surely no true friendship could grow up between 
two so totally unlike. ' “ Was it possible that he was de- 
ceived in him, or was he trying to raise from the ruins a 
man? It was a useless task," she thought, if he were. 

“ Well, Minnie," said Mr. Benoir the next morning, 
“ I suppose you lost your heart last night, and I may as 
well think of preparing to give up my guardianship." 

“ No, indeed! My heart is all here; not a piece of it 
gone." 

“ You must be hard-hearted to withstand all the soft 
glances and tender words that were showered on you last 
night. I am afraid you are a coquette." 

“ Who can blame me? They all know I am Minnie 
Heath, worth half a million. If it were not for this fact, 
how many of the gay throng that were gathered there 
last night would have deigned to notice me? I have seen 
enough of the world to understand it pretty thoroughly, 
so let them take care, for I will have no mercy." 

“ But there might be some in earnest, some that would 
love you for yourself alone." 

“We can generally tell truth from sham; believe me, 


A WAITING HEART. 


$ 1 


I would not be so cruel as to intentionally hurt one that 
was in earnest." 

“What makes you so quiet?" asked she, turning to 
Cora, who sat with her face resting thoughtfully on her 
hand. “Thinking of your new suitor? He paid very 
marked attention to you last night, and Mr. Lingle looked 
like a thunder-cloud." 

“ Who do you mean?" 

“Mr. Wardleigh,, of course." 

“ My thoughts were far from him. I was listening re- 
spectfully to what you were saying, and thinking the 
butterfly was worth something more than its wings after 
all." 

“Now, Cora, that is too bad, to compare me to a but- 
terfly, for crush its wings, and what remains? I am 
sorry if I have impressed you as such a shallow, worthless 
being," said Minnie, half hurt at Cora's words. 

“Pardon me, Minnie, I was jesting. I know you have 
a warm, true heart, and so do others. You are not angry?' 

“Not in the least? When will Mr. Wardleigh call?" 

“He promised to call this evening." 

“Who is it that is going to call?" asked Mr. Benoir, 
who for the last few minutes had been engrossed with his 
newspaper. 

“ Mr. Wardleigh — attorney-at-law — late of Brighton, 
and now practicing with Judge Glynn," said Minnie, 
laughing. 

“Wardleigh! I had a long talk with him in the 
judge's office yesterday. He is a fine fellow. There, 
Minnie, is one that I think honest, why don't you try to 
win him?" 

Minnie shrugged her shoulders. “ You might as well 
put me into prison at once, as to marry me to such a 
man. Why, I would be continually shocking him with 
my hoydenish ways. Leave him to Cora; they suit ad- 
mirably." 


68 


A WAITING HEART . 


“ He does suit me,” replied Cora, “and I am glad he 
has honored me with his friendship.” 

“Cora, what shall we do? It is such a beautiful day 
that it is a shame to stay in the house,” said Minnie, 
after dinner. 

“ How would you like to drive out to Greenwood?” 

“Nothing would please me better.” 

It was late in the afternoon when they arrived at Green- 
wood, and walked slowly up the long, shady avenues. 

“How quietly they sleep,” said Cora, as she sat down 
by a grave to rest. “The shadows of the leaves chasing 
each other over the marble, are the only symbols of un- 
rest. “Oh! the beauty, the wit, the genius that slumber 
here — slumber so quietly, that none would think they had 
ever loved, sorrowed, or suffered; yet through what depths 
of passion and pain, and through what labyrinths of vain 
endeavor they came — as we all shall come at last — to 
this! Death could have no terror for me. It would be 
sweet, I think, to rest peacefully beneath the tender 
grasses and clinging mosses that will like these creep 
over our graves, and be oblivious to the world's envy or 
hate.” 

“ See how iate it is; the sun is quite down,” said Minnie, 
at length. ' 

“ Yes, it is time we were returning. Do the cemeteries 
here resemble those in Prance?” 

“Yes, only the graves there are more profusely scat- 
tered with flowers. What would I not give to have the 
privilege you have had to-day, of placing a bouquet on my 
mother's grave. I paid Francois, one of our old servants, 
a large sum to see that my parents' graves were not neg- 
lected, but I am afraid he will grow careless by-and-by. 
Nothing would pain me more than to go back and find 
their graves overgrown with weeds.” 

“There are two gentlemen in the parlor, to see you,” 
said Jane, the servant, that evening after their return. 


A WAITING HEART. 


69 


“ Did you have any trouble in finding us?” asked Cora, 
after entering the room. “ I forgot to give you my ad- 
dress.^ 

“ Mr. Lingle was kind enough to call at the hotel and 
pilot me here.” 

“ Mr. Lingle,” said Minnie, turning to him later that 
evening, “ you spoke last night of a picnic soon to be; 
what about it?” 

“All arrangements have been made. We are going 
Thursday, up the Hudson, on the Harper , and you young 
ladies are requested to be of our number. The band will 
be in attendance, and I think we will have a very pleasant 
time.” 

“ I am glad there is promise of a little gayety. I have 
been coaxing Cora to go to Saratoga this summer; but I 
am afraid my coaxing won't do any good.” 

“I am afraid it won't, Minnie,” said she, smiling. “ If 
I go any place, it will be to some little retreat where I 
can have quiet and rest.” 

“The larger the crowd, and the greater the excitement, 
the better I enjoy myself,” said Minnie. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ A sister’s quiet love 

Stirs my heart for thee ; 

Ask me for none other, 

For it paineth me.” 

The day for the picnic dawned bright and beautiful, 
and a merry party gathered on the Harper , under flying 
colors and enlivening strains of music. Minnie was in 
her element, darting here and there, wild, wayward and 
capricious as an April day, changeable as the summer 
clouds, and restless as the waves. She was in raptures 
with the scenery as they sailed up the river, and declared 
that it excelled la belle France. 

Estella was there, and promenaded the deck with Grant 


70 


A WAITING HEART. 


Wardleigh, and Cora with Gerald Lingle. Minnie would 
stay with no one, hut was first at one end of the boat and 
then at the other, seeing all that was to be seen. 

They arrived at their destination at last, a little green 
hollow on the opposite side of the bank, with tall maples 
throwing out on the water their long, cool shadows, and 
the velvety grass making the hills “look green afar.” 

“What an abode for a sylvan!” cried Minnie, as she 
sprang ashore. 

“Beautiful as the home of Undine; one could imagine 
her feet had pressed this flowery sod,” said Cora. 

“Or we might compare it to the Isle of the immortal 
Calypso,” said Estella. 

“Oh, I could live here forever!” said Minnie, gather- 
ing her arms full of wild flowers, “for 

‘ Never had sultan roof like this, 

Never king such castle walls.’ 

“ What dreams I could dream in this beautiful retreat! 
what castles in the air! Look, Cora, how this vine clings 
to the rocks. Is it not beautiful? Let me pin a spray of 
it in your hair, for you are like it.” 

“She is very complimentary, don't you think?” asked 
Cora of Gerald Lingle, who was walking by her side. 

“ No — yes — I beg your pardon, but I have not the least 
idea of what you were saying,” said he; confused. 

“Dear me! we cannot repeat it, so you do not know 
what you have lost. Tell me what you were thinking of? 
Something extremely interesting, to make you unmindful 
of our presence,” said Minnie. 

“ I was thinking of nothing that would interest you.” 

“Try me,” said she, looking up, saucily. “Oh, I 
know,” and she ran away singing, 

‘ But before the day was over, he’d somewhat made up his 
mind 

That fie d pop the question to her, if to him her heart in- 
clined !’ 


A WAITING HEART. 


71 


“ The saucy girl,” said Cora, laughing. 

“ Cora!” 

She turned and looked up in surprise. 

“ Minnie was. right,” said he, in reply to her look. 
“ You must know, Cora, that I love you. Almost from 
the first time I saw your face, you have been inexpressibly 
dear to me. It has been the one dream of my life to call 
you mine. Am I to be disappointed?” he asked, bitterly, 
when he saw her unmoved. 

“ Gerald, my dear friend, I am proud to think you have 
honored me with your love, but pained when I know that 
I can never return it. Do not let this estrange us, for I 
need your friendship. Believe me, Gerald, if I had known 
your thoughts, I would have told you how hopeless your 
dream was, long ago,” said she. 

“Answer me one question, Cora; are you engaged to 
another?” 

“ I am not.” 

“ Then may I not hope that you will love me?” said 
lie, holding her hands in an iron-grasp, while his dark 
eyes searched her face. 

“No, Gerald; as a dear brother I shall always love 
you, but the deeper, truer love for which you ask, I can 
never give. You are not angry?” she asked, looking at 
his knitted brow. “ I would have prevented it if I could.” 

“No, Cora, I am not angry, but it is so hard to give 
up all my cherished dreams and hopes; so hard to give 
up all thoughts of ever possessing you. My friendship 
you shall always have, but pardon me if I do not see you 
for a time. I must live down this unrequited love. 
Come, let us join the rest of the party,” and giving her 
his arm, they walked up to a group and found Minnie 
debating where to have dinner. 

“You truants,” cried Minnie, when she saw them. 
“ It is well you have come or you would have missed your 
dinner,” 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ That would have been a grievous disappointment, 
for we are very hungry,” said Cora. 

Gerald Lingle left her then, nor did she see him again 
until they were on the boat, homeward bound. Sunset 
had fallen upon them as they sailed slowly down the 
river, and the broad beams of yellow light shot through 
the trees, making everything look like carved gold, and 
bathing in its mellow rays the faces of all. The last soli- 
tary beam had melted away, but the clouds overhead be- 
came richer and rosier, and the river a perfect scene of 
beauty. “Pure as innocence, and smooth as the brow of 
childhood,” it stretched away, tinged by the most glorious 
colors the eye ever beheld. Long lines of imperial purple, 
the tenderest azure, broad spaces of gleaming gold and 
bars of the richest crimson, all blended together on the 
beautiful sheet of quivering water. 

Cora stood leaning on the railing, looking out on the 
view before her. The sight filled her heart brimfull of 
loveliness, so as even to surcharge her eyes with tears. 
But all seemed impressed with the beauty and grandeur 
of the evening, for a sunset on the water awakens the 
most delicious emotions. The majesty of the beauty re- 
presses all sounds, it awes the soul to silence. Old 
memories throng upon the heart — memories of earlier, 
happier days, and of the loved and lost — the lost — that 
never again shall gladden our eyes. 

Gerald Lingle paced up and down the deck, buried in 
his own thoughts, his chin almost resting on his breast. 
He raised his head when he heard Minnie's low, mu- 
sical laugh, and saw her standing by Cora's side, pointing 
to a bird skimming over the water near them, which 
glided within the purple shadows and was seen no more. 

“ Ah, they are happy!” he thought, “but all my hopes 
and aspirations, the brightness of the future, the soaring- 
ambition, the romantic day-dream have vanished — van- 
ished like the bird in the gloaming. Angry with her? 


A WAITING HEART . 


n 

the dove! I could bless and revere her memory forever! 5 ' 
and he gazed tenderly at the fair face, th 3 mild blue eyes, 
and the brown, curling hair. 

Cora turned around and caught his gaze fixed upon 
her. She blushed deeply, for she knew how he suffered, 
and that she was the cause. 

“If he only can forget me , 55 she murmured to herself. 

“And you did not accept him, Cora ? 55 said Minnie, 
who had been watching the two with eagle eyes. 

“ Accept who ? 55 

“ Don 5 t pretend so much ignorance; you know who I 
mean . 55 

Cora did not answer, but walked over to the other side 
of the boat, where Estella was talking to Grant Wardleigh, 
her usually calm face radiant with smiles. She made way 
for Cora as she approached, and said : 

“You are just in time. Mr. Wardleigh is going to tell 
about his visit to the Dismal Swamp . 55 

Twilight had deepened. One by one the stars came 
out in the sky, and the outlines of objects began to inter- 
mingle. The trees on the banks were blending, and the 
spaces beneath their branches becoming black, while the 
distant waters glimmered dim and dusky. The moon had 
risen slowly, and rested upon the hill-tops like a great 
watch-fire. But no matter how witching the hour, how 
touching or how beautiful, one cannot stay all night mid 
moonlight and music, and the tired little party arrived 
at home, bidding a reluctant adieu to the long summer 
day that had been crowned with pleasure to all but one. 

“Cora, you are the most provoking girl living , 55 said 
Minnie that night, when she failed to draw from Cora 
what Gerald Lingle had said to her. “ I would not have 
refused to tell you anything of the kind . 55 

“I would not have asked you . 55 

“ Humph ! 55 said Minnie, and turned half angrily away. 

“Let me loop up your hair, Minnie , 55 said Cora, taking 


74 


A WAITING HEART. 


no notice of her anger. “Mr. Trevanor will soon he 
here.” 

“ I wish Mr. Trevanor was at the bottom of the Bed 
Sea! I don’t want to see him — I am tired.” 

“ What did you tell him to call for?” 

“ What else could I do? I hate the stiff, prim old bach- 
elor, and would not have him if every hair in his head 
was strung with diamonds. I am vexed now to think I 
gave him my permission to call, but Frank Gray was 
standing near, and I wanted to make him jealous.” 

Such was Minnie’s story, but if Cora could have looked 
into her heart, she would have seen that she was secretly 
fretting because Gerald Lingle would not make his cus- 
tomary call that evening, and would have seen what Min- 
nie would not own to herself, that she cared for him in a 
way that common friendship did not require. 

“What has become of Gerald Lingle?” asked Mr. 
Benoir, one day. “I have not seen him for a long time. 
Don’t he call here any more?” 

“No, sir,” said Minnie. “Grant Wardleigh says he 
has left the city.” 

“Why, what is the matter?” 

“Ask Cora, she can tell you.” 

But Cora did not tell, nor pay any attention to Min- 
nie’s words. Mr. Benoir guessed the truth, however, and 
asked no questions. 

It was three months before Gerald Lingle returned to 
New York; then he settled down to his law books with 
a determination that insured success. Cora met him 
frequently, and his greeting was as kindly as of yore, but 
he did not call on her. To Minnie he became quite at- 
tentive whenever he met her at a party or opera, and she 
laid a number of plans to get him to the house. It was 
a long time before she succeeded, but after that he was 
as frequent a caller as Grant Wardleigh himself. Cora 
thought Gerald was in a fair way to forget her, and she 


A WAITING HEART 


75 


was glad of it. She knew from Minnie’s incessant chat- 
ter that she was not indifferent toward him, though she 
took great pains to convince her otherwise. 

Mr. Benoir saw how things were progressing, and said, 
one day, he would not be surprised if he had two lawyers 
in his family, yet. 

Minnie and Cora both assured him there was not a 
particle of danger, but Mr. Benoir wisely shook his head, 
and said he knew better. 

The days rolled on, and they were golden ones to Cora. 
Unconsciously the old idol had been dethroned, and a 
new one raised instead. A brother she had never had, 
but Grant Wardleigh was as untiring in his kindness as 
the most loving of brothers, and she gave him all a 
sister’s affection, she thought, but unawares her feelings 
had drifted into something deeper than platonic love. 
She found she had been deceiving herself as time wore 
on, and that she loved Grant Wardleigh as she had never 
loved before. Did he love her? He had not said so in so 
many words, but every look had spoken volumes* She 
was content, for she trusted in his honor, and knew that 
all would come clear by and by. 

“ Well, Minnie,” said Mr. Benoir, coming into the room 
one day, where Minnie was sitting, “ guess what news I 
have for you?” 

“ Indeed, I can never guess.” 

“ Try.” 

“I have lost my fortune.” 

“ Does my face look as if I were the bearer of bad 
news?” 

“ No, but I did not know what else could concern me.” 

“Does not Gerald Lingle concern you?” 

“Yes, sir, some little; but what about him?” 

“He is Judge Lingle, now.” 

“ Only thirty-three years old, and a judge! that is 
something tliat does not occur every day!” 


76 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ No, and you may reasonbly be proud of him.” 

“ Cora,” said Minnie, bounding up the stairs, “don’t 
you think; Gerald is a judge!” 

“I am very glad for your sake,” said Cora, quietly. 

“ You say that in a matter-of-fact way. Your father 
said it was unusual for a man of Gerald’s years to be a 
judge.” 

“I know it,” said Cora, laughing at her ardor, and 
looking up from her book, asked: “What would you 
have me do?” 

“I would not have you do anything, but you do not 
seem to care that he has been successful.” 

“You would not expect me to be as enthusiastic as 
yourself?” 

“ I don’t see why you should not be,” said she, m a 
careless manner. 

“ Now, Minnie, you do know why. You know you 
care infinitely more for him than I do.” 

“ I don’t know as I do,” said she, pettishly, as she left 
the room. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Leaves have their time to fall 

And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, 
And stars to set ; but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine, oh, death.” 

Estella was fairly launched on the sea of fashionable 
life. Night after night found her at party or opera. She 
was not vain, but she knew she was beautiful and admired; 
and what woman conscious of her power does not love to 
exercise it? 

It was Mrs. Brainard’s aim to secure her daughter a 
wealthy husband, and no pains or money was spared in 
working for the desired goal. The ultimatum of Estella’s 
hopes was a husband, too — not one that possessed wealth 
alone, but that had all the qualities essential to the mak- 


a waiting heart. 


77 

ing of a true, noble man — one that she could love, and 
would love her in return. As for Mrs. Brainard, she had 
none of these “ quixotic ideas/’ as she termed them. 
Wealth to her was all in all. It allowed her to lead a 
fashionable life — what more was needed ? 

The winter season had but commenced. Mrs. Garner, 
one of Mrs. Brainard s “five hundred” friends, was to 
give a party that was to eclipse all former ones in bril- 
liancy and expense. Estella and her mother were going, 
and she went into the library, as was her custom, to kiss 
her father good-night. 

As she stood on the threshold, her heart suddenly fell, 
and something seemed to say: “Do not go: stay with 
your father.” “■ How silly I am,” she thought, and turned 
away; but in after years she felt that she would have 
given much of her life if she had obeyed that warning. 

The party was composed of the most refined and 
wealthy people in the city, and Estella had, as usual, a 
group of admirers around her, but there was an under- 
current of sadness, that made itself felt under all the gay 
exterior, and it was a relief when she arrived at home. 

“ I locked my room, Estella, before I went away, and 
you had better do the same when you go out, for I don't 
believe Bridget is as honest as she might be. I must go 
into the library and get the key.” 

Why did Mrs. Brainard start so suddenly back as she 
entered the room? Was it an unusual sight to see the 
doctor sitting there so late at night, or was it the closed 
eyes and the pale face that looked so deathly under the 
glare of the gas-light that startled her? 

Sne went close up to him and shook him by the arm. 

“ Come, w r ake up; it is very late,” she said. 

But the watch ticking on the table was the only sound 
she heard. 

Ah! you may clasp your hands, and call on his name, 
but he will not answer; for even as you stood in that 


78 


A WAITING HEART. 


crowded throng, basking in the smiles of the gay and friv- 
olous, this tired, patient heart was having the only rest it 
had known for years — far, far beyond all care, all toil — 
never to know anything but joy, forever. 

Estella heard her mother's cry and rushed into the 
room. One glance told her what her heart most dreaded. 
She stood one moment looking at her father, her face as 
white as the dress she wore. “ Oh, my father! if I had 
only remained at home! but I left you to die alone! Oh, 
mother! I never — never can forgive myself.” Mrs. 
Brainard stood mute before his chair, and gazed with 
something like sadness on that noble face. Did her 
cruelty come before her mind? Did she think how she 
had tried him, until his weary burden had snapped 
asunder the threads of life? Did she realize that it was 
herself who had caused him in the prime of life to lay 
before her, a corpse? Perhaps so, but she gave no out- 
ward signs of remorse. 

“Estella, he may not be dead; ring for the servants 
and send for a physician, immediately; as for myself, 1 
have not strength enough to do anything.” 

“It is little use, mother,” said she, passing her hand 
tenderly over his icy face. “ See, there is no warmth 
there.” 

A physician came, looked at him and said: “He has 
been dead for some time. Heart disease the cause. His 
death has, in all probability, been hastened by some men- 
tal excitement or sorrow.” 

Estella calmly gave orders to the servants, then went 
to her room, her head throbbing almost to bursting, and 
all the night paced up and down the room, her white 
dress rustling on the floor behind her, and the amethysts 
gleaming on her neck and arms seemed to mock her in her 
misery. 

“ Oh, if I had only remained at home!” she kept crying 


A WAIT1SG heart . 


TO 


to herself. “ It would have taken away half my grief to 
have been with him when he died.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Morning dawned, and through the gray mist gradually 
beamed the sun. Estella slowly took off her jewels and 
dress, donned a dark wrapper, and then went down the 
stairs into the library, and looked once more on the pale 
face of her father. She shed no tears, she uttered no 
moan, but despair was written on her beautiful face. 

“ Henry,” said she, turning to a servant, go and 
tell Mr. Benoir what has happened,” and she left the room 
as calmly as she had entered it. 

Mr. Benoir found Estella in the deserted parlor, walk- 
ing up and down, her arms tightly folded across her 
breast. 

“ Oh, Mr. Benoir, I am so glad that you have come. I 
knew no one else to send for, and I know not what to do 
myself. Will you see that all is done?” 

“Gladly, Estella, and will save you all the trouble pos- 
sible. Can I see your father?” 

“ Yes,” and she led the way to the room in which they 
had laid him. 

Mr. Benoir lookedx own on the face, that death as yet 
had not changed, with feelings of intense sorrow. “My 
poor friend!” he said, “ I little thought while talking to 
you yesterday, that I was destined never again to see you 
alive. Ah, Estella, how uncertain life is!” 

lie was a little surprised to see her shed no tears, but 
the hard look on her face convinced him that she suffered. 

“Where is your mother?” he asked. “Will she have 
any orders for me to execute?” 

“I think not. She will give orders about nothing but 
her mourning. The dress-makers will be sent for; yon 
could do nothing there.” 

“ Shall I send Cora to you?” 


80 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Don’t be offended, Mr. Benoir, but I would rather be 
alone. Let her come and see father, though — she loved 
him dearly. ” 

“Hannah, tell Estella I wish to see her,” said Mrs. 
Brainard, faintly, holding a vinaigrette to her nose. 

“Oh, how terrible this all is!” 

“ What do you want, mother?” asked Estella, standing 
in the doorway. 

“ Have you dispatched for Eugene?” 

“ No, it would be of no use. He is in Havana, and 
could not get here. Is that all you wanted ?” 

“ Yes. I declare, she is like a stone,” said her mother, 
after she was gone. 

“Do I want any breakfast? no — no,” said she, as Han- 
nah put down a plate of dainty food. “ I cannot eat a 
bite!” but in spite of this assertion she managed to finish 
a broiled bird, and a large slice of toast. 

“Minnie,” said Cora, after her father had returned, 
“ Dr. Brainard is dead.” 

“Dead! Why, when did he die?” 

“Some time last night — no one knows at what hour — 
but when they came home from the park last night, they 
found him dead in the chair.” 

“ Does Estella and her mother take it very hard?” 

“Father did not say anything about Mrs. Brainard, 
but is alarmed about Estella. She has not shed any 
tears, but goes about the house like one in a dream.” 

“ I should think they would feel very remorseful for 
leaving him to die alone. Mrs. Brainard has always 
treated him shamefully.” 

Cora mourned for the doctor as if he had been some 
near relative. He had been as kind and tender to her as 
a father, and watched her while at his home, with a par- 
ent’s solicitude. His sufferings were at an end now, and 
it consoled her to think that no more would harsh words 
' or neglect pain his generous heart. Oh, if his wife had 


A WAITING HEART , 


81 


ever loved him, how sorrowful she must feel for every 
unkind word, and to know that from the mute lips would 
never come one word to tell her she was forgiven! 

“ Don’t Mrs. Brainard take on?” whispered Minnie to 
Cora, the next day at the funeral. “ I wonder how many 
crocodile tears she is shedding?” 

“Hush, Minnie!” said Cora, reproachfully. 

“ Well, you know,” persisted Minnie, “ that ‘ still water 
runs deep/ ” 

“We cannot tell what her feelings are, and we have no 
right to criticise.” 

A reproof from Cora always silenced Minnie, and she 
said no more. 

Society missed the stately Estella for a few weeks, and 
then she was thought of no more. Her friends offered 
condolence as etiquette required, then troubled themselves 
no further. Cora was the only one that really loved her, 
and she visited her as often as she would allow, for Es- 
tella had grown colder and more distant than ever, and 
sometimes even refused to see her. 


CHAPTER XI. 

u I hear thy voice, oh, beautiful Spring, 

Borne by the zephyr of silken wing ; 

Come with me, loved one, oh, come with me 
Where the Oriole builds in the bright green tree !” 

“ What a beautiful spring day this has been,” said 
Cora, one evening, as she and Grant sat by the open 
window. 

“ It has been a beautiful day, and it has made me long 
for my old home. I think I shall go next week.” 

Cora heard this with a touch of pain, for she knew how 
lonely she would feel after he was gone. 

“ Will you stay long?” 

“ I am not very busy now, and I shall probably remain 
two or three months. There is only one thing that I 


A WAITING HEART 


82 

shall regret in going, and that is the necessity of being 
deprived of your society,” said he, looking down tenderly 
into her face. 

“ And I shall miss you,” said she, softly. 

He took her hands, pressed them gently, and said: 

“ That assurance will shorten my stay. I must go 
now; it is eleven o'clock,” said he, glancing at his watch. 

Grant was gone, and Minnie laughingly declared that 
Cora acted like one lost. 

“ When were you to see Estella last?” asked Minnie one 
day, of Cora, at dinner. 

“ Not since last week.” 

“ Nina Rivers told me to*day that she and her mother 
are going to Cape May next week.” 

“Going to Cape May! What nonsense!” said Mr. Be- 
noir. “ The doctor was very much in debt when he died, 
and it took half his fortune to liquidate the claims. 
Still, they would have enough to live comfortably, if they 
would practice a little economy; but I am afraid if Mrs. 
Brainard keeps on at this rate, she will find herself with- 
out anything before long.” 

“ Minnie, there is something in this letter that will in- 
terest you,” said Cora, giving her a letter she had just 
received from Grant a few days after. 

“Oh, how delightful!” said Minnie, “To think we 
are invited to spend the summer at Grant's home, and 
such a nice party to go with us.” 

“ I am sorry Estella has gone to Cape May.* She 
would like to have gone with us, I know,” said Cora. 

“I am glad she is not going with us.” 

“ Minnie, you are selfish!” 

“ I know it, my mentor; but Estella cares a great deal 
for display, and would have no chance of showing her 
elegant wardrobe there. She likes excitement and a 
crowd, and I wish that she may have them.” 

“I thought that you liked excitement and a crowd? 


A WAITING HEART 83 

You were lamenting last summer because I would not go 
to Saratoga with you.” 

“I do like a crowd, but quiet and Gerald are more de- 
sirable.” 

“ That is the secret of your delight, then?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Cora,” said Minnie, that night, coming up to her 
room with a disappointed look on her face, “ Gerald says 
he cannot go with us, and that he will be so busy that he 
cannot come for a month, if then.” 

“ That is a disappointment, but not so great as if he 
could not come at all.” 

“ Beautiful — beautiful!” exclaimed Minnie, as she stood 
on the veranda of the Wardleigh mansion, and gazed on 
its extensive grounds, which were profusely scattered 
with flowers. “ Grant, you ought to be as happy as a 
king here.” 

“ I am. Miss Minnie.” 

“Cora, you do not say a word.” 

“I am lost in admiration,” she replied. 

“ Come, ladies,” said Grant, turning to the group, “ I 
know your journey has made you hungry, and Chloe says 
tea is waiting. After that, if you are not too tired we 
will go over the grounds.” 

“ And this is Blanche's grave,” said Cora to Grant, the 
next evening, as they were strolling over the old church- 
yard. 

“Yes, this is Blanche's grave — and that is Grace's.” 

Then a silence fell between them, for both were busy 
with their thoughts. 

“ Cora,” said he at last, “it was Blanche's desire that 
I should meet and love you. Long before I knew you, the 
letters you had written to my sister had awakened a 
friendly interest in my heart for you; but when we met, 
and I found a woman who had lived in the blaze of fash- 
ion all her life, and yet had never become contaminated 


64 


A WAITING HEART. 


with it, whose heart remained as pure as a child’s, I 
learned to love you. I have not spoken of this before, 
Cora, because I felt so unworthy of you. Every day I 
strove to become truer for your sake, and may I hope 
that your feelings are not indifferent toward me?” 

She was silent. 

“ Oh, Cora! say that you will love me.” 

Still she was silent, but she raised her eyes, all eloquent 
with tears, and Grant read his answer there. 

“My darling — my own, precious darling!” said he, 
drawing her toward him, and pressing his first kiss on 
her lips. “ Oh, if Blanche could only have known this!” 

“ Who knows but she does. Her spirit, like that we 
were reading in the German legend this morning, may be 
hovering around those she loved.” 

“ Her face was ever pure and saint-like, and I can 
almost imagine I see her looking down upon us now.” 

“Is not that Minnie and Gerald coming toward us?” 
asked Cora, as she heard a low, silvery laugh. 

“Yes; I thought when I received his letter, saying that 
he could not come until the latter part of the summer, 
that he could not remain away that long -from Minnie’s 
iide.” 

“ Grant,” said Gerald, as they met, “ don’t think I have 
been guilty of deception. I wrote to you that I could not 
come but I found it so insufferably dull after you all ha 1 
gone, that I concluded to run down for a few days, any- 
how. 

“Miss Cora,” said he, turning to her, “the country air 
seems to have had a powerful effect on you already — your 
cheeks are as pink as Minnie’s bouquet of wild roses.” 

“I am afraid the country air is not all that has made 
her cheeks so rosy,” said Minnie, looking up laughingly 
into her face; then noting her embarrassment, she changed 
the subject by saying she was tired, and proposing that 
they should return to the house. 


A WAITING BEAM. 


85 


CHAPTER XIL 

44 Verily, there is nothing so true that the damps of error 
have not warped it ; 

Verily, there is nothing so false that a sparkle of truth 
is not in it.” 

A glaring, midsummer sun, a long, dusty road. 
Eugene Traey glanced at both and shrugged his shoulders, 
as he jumped off the cars at the little wayside station 
called Brighton. 

“I w r onder why Grant is not here to meet me? Nice 
way to treat an invited guest, I do think!” said he, frown- 
ing and muttering something between his teeth. 

“ Say, boy,” said he suddenly, to a little ragged urchin 
standing near. “ How far is the Wardleigh place from 
here?” 

“Dunno,” said the boy, giving him an idiotic stare. 

“Well, do you know where Grant Wardleigh lives, 
then?” asked he, impatiently, thinking the boy had not 
understood him at first. 

“'Spect I do.” 

“Where?” 

“Now, .stranger, what would you give to know r ?” asked 
he, leaning against the fence, putting his hands in his 
pockets, and squinting up his eyes «in a way that would 
have done credit to Sam Weller. 

Eugene Tracy grew enraged. “Are you going to tell 
me or not?” asked he, shaking him by the arm. 

“ Seeing you are so mad, 'spect Pll have to,” said the 
boy as he felt the grasp tighten on his arm. “It is the 
first white house on this yer road. You can't miss it. 
Now let go of me; let go of me, I tell you!” and he pulled 
away. 

“ Tell me if it is a long walk, first.” 

“ It might be longer.” 

“ That is not answering my question!” 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ You old pepper-pod! I won’t tell you another thing!” 
said the boy when he found himself free,, and picking up 
a stone he whirled it at him, then scampered off as fast 
as he could o 

Eugene Tracy walked angrily away. To be compelled 
to walk on such a day as this was to his mind an insult 
too great to be borne. But what was he to do? To go 
back was impossible, for no train would be due until mid- 
night. So he had to swallow- his wrath and walk on, 
which was a disagreeable thing to do — more so from the 
fact that there were few disagreeable things he had ever 
been forced to do. Had his life been one less of ease, he 
might perhaps have been different; as it was, he was still 
the unprincipled man of years before. 

“ Thank fortune, there is the house at last!” said he, 
stopping to wipe the dust and perspiration from his face, 
after having traveled along for more than an hour. 
“ Catch me ever making such a fool of myself again!” 

At that moment a gleam of a white dress flitted through 
the trees, and he heard a clear voice singing “ Daisy 
Dean.” In a moment more he stood face to face with 
Cora Benoir. 

He expected tears and reproaches, but instead of that, 
she came forward, smiling, and held out her hand in a 
cordial manner. “ Mr. Tracy, how glad I am to see you! 
This is such a pleasant surprise.” 

But not so self-possessed was he. A look of shame 
spread over his face; he stood still, hesitated, and then 
stammered out that he did not think she had remembered 
him all these years. 

“ Oh! you know one does not so easily forget old 
friends,” said she, softly, laying a little stress on the last 
word. 

He winced at that, for he knew what a wretch she 
thought him. She saw his confusion, and laughed some- 
what maliciously, he thought, and no doubt he would 


A WA TTING HEART . 


87 


have turned and left, had not Grant Wardleigh that 
moment appeared* on the avenue. 

“ Hallo! old boy! how are you? What stray cloud 
have you dropped from?” 

“ From a cloud of dust,” said he, in a displeased tone 

“ If you had told me when you were coming, I would 
have met you, and saved you this long, dusty walk.” 

“ I sent you a letter three days ago.” 

“ I did not receive it. But never mind, Eugene, I will 
atone by making your visit as pleasant as possible. I beg 
pardon, Miss Cora,” said Grant, turning to where she 
stood, “ this is my friend and class-mate, Mr. Tracy, 
Miss Benoir; I was so surprised to see Eugene, that I 
almost forgot you were here.” 

“ There is no need of introduction; Mr. Tracy is no 
stranger to me,” said she, pleasantly. 

“You must excuse us now,” said Grant, as they as- 
cended the steps of the veranda, “ I am going to take 
Eugene to his room. It lacks but half an hour of din- 
ner,” said he, looking at his watch, “and I want him to 
look well, for remember how many pairs of bright eyes 
will be flashed upon him.” 

“And that reminds me it is time to dress, too, though 
I do not expect any eyes to flash at me,” said Cora. 

Grant laughed, and bending down he whispered some- 
thing in her ears that made her cheeks like two red 
roses. 

“ So you knew MissJBenoir before you met her to-day?” 
said Grant to Eugene, after Cora had left them. 

“ Yes, I met her four years ago, while visiting my aunt 
in New York.” 

“This way, Eugene, there is your room. I will leave 
you now. When you are ready, join me in the library; 
I want to introduce you to the ladies.” Eugene closed 
the door somewhat savagely after his friend, threw his 
hat on the floor, and walked over to the window, only to 


A WAITING HEART 


catch a glimpse of Cora’s bewitching face as she talked 
to a lady on the graveled walk. Drawing down the blind, 
Eugene called himself a fool for being upset at sight of 
this woman’s face, then sat down in a chair and began 
cursing the whole sex in general, just as most men do 
when they find a woman has beaten them; and there is no 
telling what state of mind he might have arrived at, bad 
not the hum of voices below warned him that it was four 
o’clock. So making a hasty toilet, he descended to the 
library, where he found Grant, Cora, the handsome Judge 
Lingle, and also Minnie Heath, Ida Nathan, and Helen 
Fay. The girls were all very pretty, and stylish enough 
to attract the attention of one as fastidious as Eugene. 
But he had eyes for no one except Cora. He could not 
believe that the elegant woman before him was the Cora 
he had held in his arms, kissed and caressed, in the days 
long since gone by. She was no longer a shrinking, blush- 
ing girl, but a self-possessed and beautiful woman. He 
wondered if she remembered the past. He was deter- 
mined to see. But she understood him better than she 
did four years before, and when he came over to her 
side, and the conversation drifted on the past, she adroitly 
changed the subject, and talked as indifferently as if he 
had never been in her thoughts. During dinner she di- 
rected her conversation chiefly to Grant Wardleigh and 
Judge Lingle. Eugene Tracy she ignored altogether. 

This was a new phase in his life, and he opened his 
eyes in astonishment, for his wealth never failed before 
in gaining him attention. But this woman defied him in 
every way and manner. Should he let her see that he 
cared? No! And all that afternoon he flirted most des- 
perately with the other ladies. But what satisfaction 
was there in doing so, when Cora looked on in smiling 
approbation? 

u Is that Mrs. Brainard’s nephew?” asked Minnie, com- 
ing up to Cora and whispering in her ear. 


A WAITING HEART. 


89 


I “Yes.” 

“I thought so. He is just like Mrs. Brainard. 1 
onder why he is not with her!” 

“ Grant invited him here. He is an old friend and 
schoolmate of his.” 

“I am surprised, for he looks dissipated, and Grant 
has always seemed particular in his choice of friends.” 

“Hush! there comes Grant and Miss Fay; he might 
not like to hear you criticise his friend so harshly.” 

“ I don’t care a fig! Grant understands me.” 

“ But there is Miss Fay.” 

“'Well, she ought to have her eyes opened. He was 
playing the devoted to her to-day.** 

“What do you know about him, Minnie?” she asked, a 
little curious. 

“Nothing, only I surmise a great deal; yes, a great 
deal more that you think I do, you sly little puss.** 

“You are a witch!” said Cora, laughing. 

“ Something of one,” said Minnie, with pretended 
gravity. “ You see you need not keep your secrets from 
me, for I am sure to find them out.” 

“ Gerald has been hunting you all over the house, and 
looks quite disconsolate because he could not find you,” 
said Grant, as he approached her. 

“If that is the case, I must go to him. Where is he?” 
“ I left him in the music-room.” 

“Grant said you wanted me,” said Minnie, entering 
the room where Gerald was leaning against the window. 

“Yes, I was hunting you; where have you been all the 
evening?” 

“Everywhere almost. This is such a beautiful place, 
I never get tired of strolling around. ” 

“Come and sing for me.” 

“What shall I sing?” 

“Anything.” 

Minnie sat down to the piano and sung one of his 


00 


A WAITING HEART. 


favorites. After she was through she looked up into his 
face and saw him gazing at her attentively. 

“What makes you so quiet?” she asked. 

“ I was thinking of you.” 

“ Am I such a melancholy subject?” 

“ I was thinking whether you could love me.” 

“ That would depend on circumstances,” said Minnie, 
roguishly. 

“ I love you, Minnie.” 

“You loved Cora once,” said she, not because she 
doubted its truth, but because she was a little piqued to 
know he had loved before. 

“ I thought I loved her once, and for lnany — many days 
I felt very badly because she rejected me; but after I was 
thrown in your society, a deeper, warmer feeling sprang 
up in my heart for you than I ever experienced for 
Cora.” 

“ Are you sure you do not love her still?” she asked. 

“As a friend, I do, but you are all the world to me. 
Will you not try to love me?” 

“ No, I will not try,” then noting the look of sadness 
that passed over his face, said, “ for I love you already.” 

“Oh, Minnie!” and he caught the fingers that were 
nervously flitting over the piano keys in his own, while 
be pressed a kiss on her blushing cheek. 

“ There is that odious Eugene Tracy!” said she, trying 
to free her fingers, as she. saw him pass the window and 
enter the room with Helen Fay. “ See, the moon is shin- 
ing,” said she, indifferently, “let us take a walk.” 

“ I am afraid we interrupted a very pleasant tete-a-tete, 
Miss Fay,” said Eugene. 

“Yes, the judge looked as if he had just offered him- 
self.” 

“ He is becoming quite distinguished in his profession, 
is he not?” 


A WAITING HEART . 


91 


“ Yes, and is very popular with the ladies, but pays at- 
tention to no one but Minnie and Cora. Report was once 
that he proposed to Cora, and was rejected. How true it 
was, I cannot say; but he left New York for a time, and 
after he returned it was long before he visited them. 
Minnie captivated his fancy, it seems, and drew him there 
at last, or he imagines that lie still has a chance of win- 
ning Cora. Let us join Ida on the veranda, for it is so 
warm in here.” 

“Minnie, what is the matter with you? you are trying 
to stick pins into the brush instead of the cushion, and a 
moment ago you were tearing your gloves to pieces,” said 
Cora, that night, when they had retired to their room. 

“ Something has happened,” said Minnie. 

“May I ask what it is?” said Cora, because she knew 
Minnie wanted to tell her. 

“You may guess.” 

“ Gerald proposed, and was accepted.” 

“ Grant told you.” 

“ No, he did not, but I have known for a long time that 
Gerald loved you, and I hoped that it would meet with 
this result. He is good and noble, Minnie, and in every 
way worthy of you. I hope that you may be very happy,” 
said she, taking the bright, blushing face between her 
hands, and kissing her. 

“Why did you not marry him, Cora? He proposed to 
you once, for he told me so himself.” 

“ I did not love him, Minnie. Was not that a good 
reason?” 

“ Now that I have given you my confidence, I think you 
might give me yours.” 

“I am almost sure I could not tell you anything you do 
not know.” 

“Yes, you could. I may have surmised a great many 
things, but I am not certain that I am right,” 


92 


A WAITING HEART. 


“Well, what is it you wish to know?” 

“ Are you and Grant Wardleigh engaged?” 

“We are.” 

“Has Grant written to your father?” 

“ He has, and received an answer. Father always liked 
Grant, and is pleased with my choice.” 

“ I wonder what your father will say when he knows 
that I have accepted Gerald?” 

“ He will say you have acted wisely. Do you know, Min- 
nie, you have won a man that a dozen maneuvering 
mothers have failed in catching for their daughters? 1 
trust you will appreciate him as he deserves to be appre- 
ciated.” 

“I trust I shall! I will try to make him happy, any- 
how!” 

“ Who wants to play croquet?” said Minnie Heath, the 
next morning, after breakfast, standing in the doorway, 
and swinging a mallet in her hand. 

“We all do, I guess. Come, Cora, Eugene.” 

Eugene thought he would force her to be friendly, but 
to his great annoyance, she avoided him without seeming 
to, and during the play she was never near him. Cora, 
at last, grew tired, and throwing down her mallet, seated 
herself on a rustic bench. A very pretty picture she 
made as she sat there, her fair face shaded by a broad- 
brimmed straw hat. 

Eugene Tracy leaned lazily against the tree, and 
watched. 

“ What a fool I have been,” said he to himself. “Jove! 
I would give a fortune to make her care for me as she 
did once; and why can I not? I was never defeated in 
my life. At any rate, I am not to be frightened by two 
rivals.” 

“ Miss Cora,” said he, approaching her, “ you remind 
me of Maud Muller.” 


A WAITING HEART . 


93 


“ Thank you; but she was never such an indolent piece 
of humanity, for you know, 

“ ‘ Maud Muller, on a summer day, 

Raked the meadow, sweet with hay. 1 ” 

“ Dear me! how poetical you are/’ said Minnie, seating 
herself by Cora’s side, “ and how appropriate those lines 
were, for there is the meadow with its new-mown hay, 
there the hill, over there the judge, and here Maud 
Muller — 

“ ‘ And the judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still, 

A form more fair, a face more sweet, 

Ne'er had it been his lot to meet.’ ” 

“ Who knows but that he is thinking of this now? one 
might imagine he were, to see how intently he is gazing 
at you, Cora/’ 

“ Minnie, be so kind as to entertain Mr. Tracy, I have 
letters to write,” and without waiting for an answer, Cora 
was off. 

“ Well, that is decidedly cool!” thought Eugene, “but 
I will be even with her yet; 'I won’t be outwitted by a 
woman,” and he frowned threateningly. 

“ Just look at Cora and Judge Lingle! I thought she 
had letters to write. That will be a match yet, don’t 
you think?” looking at him in a way that was irritating. 

“ Who the deuce cares? I don’t!” 

“Fie! fie! Mr. Tracy! To hear you talk, one would 
think you had some interest in the matter.” 

Cora’s coolness piqued him, but Minnie’s small talk an- 
noyed him beyond forbearance. She was a hasty, but 
candid little creature, and from the very first she did not 
hesitate to show him by word and manner what she 
thought of him, and he detested her for it. 

“Do you love Cora?” she asked at length, in a pitying 
sort of way, that added the climax to his almost irritated 
temper. 


94 


,4 WAITING HEART 


“ You are the most disagreeable woman I ever met! ?> 
he exclaimed. 

“ And you are the most disagreeable man I ever met — 
Cora would be a fool to waste a breath on you!" said she, 
petulantly. 

Eugene Tracy did not deign a reply, but strode angrily 
away to the house, entered the library, and sat down by 
the window, feeling as miserable as only a man can feel 
who has been defeated in the plans that lay so near his heart, 
for this woman had touched his heart, that lay beneath 
the deep surface of vanity and sin, hardened flirt though 
he was. But the love which should have purified and 
exalted his nature, only made him more designing still, 
and he felt at that moment, if he had the chance, that he 
would not hesitate in any manner to put his rivals out of 
his path. 

“ Where are you going, Cora?" asked Minnie. 

“To the library, to write my letters." 

“ So you said some time ago." 

“I intended to then, but Gerald wanted to speak to 
me." 

Cora came in, humming a song, selected her materials 
for writing, picked up her pen and commenced; but when 
she saw Eugene at the window, and noticed how troubled 
he looked, her heart reproached her for what she had 
done. She forgot the treatment she had received from 
his hands four years ago, and laying down her pen, she 
crossed the room and laid her hand on his arm. “ Eugene, 
will you forgive me for my rudeness to-day?" 

How could he deny the pleading of the quivering lips, 
and the eyes which reminded him of twin violets, looking 
into his. “ I have nothing to forgive, Cora." 

“We are friends, then," said she, holding out her 
hand. 

“ If you wish," 


A WAITING HEART. 


95 


u I do wish it, Eugene, for I know you are unhappy. 
Something troubles you. Can I not help you?” 

“No! I am tired of life, that is all,” said he, in a de- 
spairing sort of way. 

“Oh, Eugene! why should it be? with wealth, talents, 
all, in fact, to make your life pleasant and useful.” 

“Yes, and it is this wealth that has been my curse. 
Had I been forced to work for a living, I should have 
been a better man to-day!” 

“ But don't you remember what good you once told me 
you were going to do with all this wealth?” 

“ Remember? Yes, often. Oh, if I could only retrace 
my steps and start again!” 

“ Why not commence now? You are young yet.” 

“ I feel so degraded and so steeped in wickedness, that 
I have not the strength to rise, Cora.” 

“ Carlyle says: ‘From the lowest depths there is a path 
to the loftiest heights.' Only form your purpose, Eugene, 
then resolve that it shall be victory or death, and you can 
accomplish anything.” 

“It is too late,” said he, sadly. 

“It is never too late,'’ said she, earnestly, laying her 
hand on his bowed head in a caressing manner, as of old. 
Then, half frightened at her boldness, she left the room. 

All the good in his nature was aroused at this woman's 
words, and he really did feel disgusted with himself. She 
seemed so pure, so high above him, that for the time he 
felt like leading a better life; but such feelings, with 
men of his nature, come as the sunbeams, and vanish as 
quickly. 

“Did you write your letters, Cora?” asked Minnie, that 
night, as they were preparing to retire. 

“ Why do you ask?” 

“ Oh, only because I saw you talking very earnestly to 
Eugene Tracy about the time I thought you were writing. 
I detest him!” 


A WAITING HEART 


“He has faults, Minnie, like the rest of us. He is an 
orphan, and his life has never been shielded like ours. 
Perhaps, had we been placed in his position, and sur- 
rounded by all the temptations that a fortune like his too 
surely brings, we would have been no better. You must 
remember this, Minnie, and judge him accordingly.” 

“ Well, he need not be so crusty.” 

“I suspect you were teasing him#” 

“ Yes, I was, but he deserved it. Are you angry with 
me, Cora?” said she, putting her arms about her in a 
coaxing way. 

“Angry! how could I be?” said she, looking into the 
bright face and black eyes that were sparkling with mis- 
chief. 

“Have I tried your patience?” asked Minnie, as she 
came down the stairs the next morning to take a walk. 

“ No, we are in no great hurry,” replied Gerald. 

“ How grand!” said Cora, as they entered a grove, where 
the dewdrops hung glittering like diamonds on every spray, 
and the air was jubilant with the song of birds. “Min- 
nie, one hour of this is worth fifty of Saratoga.” 

“ Yes, or any other fashionable watering-place. 'The 
air itself is exhilarating.” 

“ We can do justice to our breakfast, after such a walk,” 
said Cora. 

“ Where have you been?” greeted them from all, as they 
entered the house. 

“We have had such a delightful walk; are we late for 
breakfast?” asked Minnie. 

“ Yes, Chloe has been scolding because the muffins 
were getting cold. Put your flowers down and come in 
and get her in a good humer,” said Ida. 

“ I must place them in water first; they are too beauti- 
ful to let them wither,” 


A WAITING HEART 


97 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ Of all sad Avords of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these, It might have been. ” 

The summer had drifted into autumn, and it was time 
Grant Wardleigh's guests were returning home. It was a 
beautiful place, and the family were so pleasant that they 
kept putting off their departure from day to day. Bu; 
the last night had come; to-morrow they were to leave. 
They had visited all their old haunts that day, with feel- 
ings akin to sorrow. Grant and Cora lingered long at 
Blanche's grave, where they had first plighted their love, 
and laid upon it a wreath of pale autumn flowers. 

They were all gathered in the parlor, talking over the 
pleasures of the summer, and wondering when they would 
meet again. For once, the fun-loving Minnie was still, 
and bade them good-night with a sober face. Cora and 
Eugene were the last to leave. 

“ Don't go," said he, as she arose from her chair. 
“ Sing for me once more; you promised, you know." 

She hesitated a moment, then sat down at the piano, 
ran over a prelude, and sang: 

“ I have just been learning the lesson of life, 

The sad— sad lesson of loving, 

And all of its powers, for pleasure or pain, 

Been slowly and sadly proving ; 

And all that is left of the bright — bright dream, 
With its thousand brilliant phases, 

Is a handful of dust in the coffin hid, 

And a coffin under the daisies. 

“ And thus forever throughout the wild world 
Is love a sorrow proving ; 

There are still many sorrowful things in life, 

But the saddest of all is loving.” 

She stopped there, looked up into his face, then arose 
and walked out on the veranda. He followed her. 


98 


A WAITING HE A It T. 


“Cora,/' he asked, “ has the lesson of life been a sad 
one to you?” 

“ Why do you ask?” said she, moving away a little 
proudly. 

“You know why I ask, Cora. You know how I 
treated you, four years ago; but I do love you now — yes, 
as truly as man can ever love.” 

“You told a girl that once, add she believed you. 
Pardon me, but I am a woman now. ” 

“ But I am madly, deadly in earnest now! Forget and 
forgive the past, Cora. Tell me how to prove my love, 
and see how gladly I will do it.” 

“ I have nothing to forgive, for I forgave your neglect 
long ago, nor do I wish to prove your love, for 1 am 
engaged.” 

“ May I ask to whom?” 

“Grant Wardleigh.” 

“He is the only one worthy of you, Cora. You have 
had your revenge.” 

“Don't think me so mean as to have wished anything 
of the kind. You misjudge me, Eugene.” 

“I am sorry; forgive me.” 

She could not help pitying him, as he stood there in 
the moonlight, with that sad, despairing look on his 
handsome face. 

“Eugene,” she said, at last, “I want you always to be 
my friend. I am greatly interested in you, and I want 
to see you happy — want to see you fill the position that 
your wealth and talents will enable you to fill. If you 
love me, as you say you do, let that love be the means of 
placing you where I shall be proud of you.” 

“I cannot promise you that it will, Cora. One glance 
at the past is enough to make me give up in despair; it 
has been so utterly worthless.” 

“ If looking into the past has any tendency to create 
despondency, then you should not dwell on such things. 


A WAITING HEART. 


99 


Kemember that the future is before you, and I want you 
to promise that you will live to do good.” 

“ I promise, Cora; but you know how weak I am.” 

“Thank you. Now, Eugene, I must say good-night.” 

“ Must you go? Oh, it is a bitter thought to know that 
I shall never see you again as Cora Benoir! But may love 
and happiness ever be yours! And now, Cora — darling 
Cora,” said he, taking her in his arms, and kissing her 
on the brow, “good-night!” 

Long ere Cora awoke the next morning, Eugene Tracy 
was far away. Who knows but this womaiTs words may 
be the means of infusing new life into his heart, a new 
faith, a new purpose, and the life we thought so wrecked, 
so incapable of any good, shall blossom forth in all the 
nobleness for which it was designed? God grant that it 
may! 

There was the hurry and bustle that there always is 
previous to the* departure of a fashionable party. The 
girls had gathered in one room, and were talking and 
packing their trunks with great rapidity. 

“Oh, girls, will I ever get through?” asked Minnie, 
coming in with her arms loaded with dresses, and tossing 
them down by her trunk. “Just look at that cool, pro- 
voking Cora, sitting over there, like f patience on a 
monument/ while I am in such a fidget. Dear me! I 
shall not get dressed in time for breakfast; and old Aunt 
Chloe will make such a fuss. Cora, do come and help 
me — that is a good girl!” 

“I will pack your trunk, or rather finish packing it,” 
said she, laughing at the heedless manner in which the 
articles had been thrown in, “ and you can go and dress.” 

“Thank you, my mentor.” 

“ Where is Mr. Tracy?” said Minnie, glancing around 
the breakfast-table. 

“ You must give him a lecture on early rising, Mr. 
Wardleigh,” said Ada Nathan. 


100 


A WAITING HEART. 


“Eugene is not here/* replied he, “he left on the 
night train/* 

“ What did he do that for?** asked Minnie. “ It was 
a shame in him to desert us, just when we needed him to 
make our party a jolly one.** 

“ Business demanded it, I suppose/* said Grant, “ for 
he came to my room last night, and said he found it 
would be best for him to leave on that train.** 

“ I think it strange he left so suddenly. He said noth- 
ing about going last night/* said Minnie. “ What do you 
think about it, Cora?** 

“ I think he must have a reason for leaving.** 

Minnie gave her an inquisitive look that attracted 
Grant Wardleigh*s attention. Cora blushed as he, too, 
looked at her, but said nothing. 

“Nine o*clock,*’ said Grant, suddenly arising from his 
chair. “Nearly train time, you see. . We had better 
start.** 

“Good-bye, Cora/* said Mrs. Wardleigh, taking her 
hands. “I am sorry to see you leave, but I hope it will 
not be long until Grant brings you back to us.** 

“ It will not be my fault if I don*t, mother/* said he, 
smiling. 

It was a merry party that started from the station, and 
a still merrier one as they took a boat on the Hudson, and 
met a party of old friends, who, like themselves, were re- 
turning from their summer retreat, among whom were 
Mrs. Brainard and Estella. 

“ Mrs. Brainard looks more disagreeable than ever, and 
Estella like a snow woman/* said Minnie to Gerald. 

“I have always thought Estella very beautiful.** 

“ So have I, but it is frozen beauty; I shiver to look at 
her.** 

“ Where is Eugene?** asked Mrs. Brainard, of Grant, as 
he was walking up and down the deck with Cora, “ I 


A WAITING HEART . 


101 


have been looking for him, but do not see him. Has he 
not been visiting you?” 

“He has,” replied Grant, “but he left last night, and 
as I supposed business was the cause, I did not question 
him.” 

Mrs. Brainard glanced at Cora, then moved away, her 
head elevated like an “antelope scenting danger from 
afar.” 

Grant laughed. “ Mrs. Brainard is vexed about Eu- 
gene. It is a little strange that he left so suddenly.” 

“ Mrs. Brainard need not look at me so suspiciously, 
for there is no need of it now,” said Cora. 

Grant looked at her questioningly. 

“Did not Eugene tell you?” 

“Tell me what?” 

“ We were engaged, once.” 

“ How long ago?” asked he in surprise. 

“ Four years ago.” 

“ Did she break it?” asked he, pointing to Mrs. 
Brainard. 

“ No, he broke it himself. I was a school-girl then, 
and very young. He caught my fancy, with his handsome 
face and polite manners, and I thought I loved him dearly 
— yes, so dearly, that I would have given up everything, 
and have waited years had it been necessary. But he 
said we could not marry; that cruel fate had separated us. 
So careful had he concealed his falseness from me, that 
this was the first glance I had of his true character; but 
that was enough. He had only been flirting with me, 
and it helped to cure me of my folly. I suffered intensely 
at first, but after a time he dropped as completely out of 
my life as if lie had never existed. Mrs. Brainard wished 
him to marry Estella, and believed me to be the cause*)f 
his not doing so, and, as he is still unmarried, she continues 
to look on me with suspicion.” 


102 


A WAITING HEART 


“ Did you never see Eugene after he broke the engage- 
ment ?" 

“No; he started for South America immediately, and 
until he visited your home, I knew nothing more about 
him. You know that I have constantly been thrown in 
his society for the last few weeks, and only last night he 
again asked me to be his wife. This time he appeared to 
be sincere, but of course was refused, which accounts for 
his hasty departure last night, though he said nothing 
about going. " 

“ Had you not been engaged to me, would your answer 
have been the same ?" said Grant, showing how easily he 
could be excited to jealousy. 

“Certainly it would, for I did not love him. You are 
not angry?" she asked, looking up into his sober face. 
“ I did not tell you this before, because he was your 
friend, and knew if I told you that you would have lost 
your confidence in him. But I intended to tell you what 
happened last night, if he did not." 

“ I am not angry with you, Cora; I knew Eugene was 
unprincipled in some things, but never thought he would 
have done an act like that." 

“ I want you to be his friend still, Grant, for I really 
think he now means to do what is right. We ought to 
be thankful, at least I ought to be; for had not things 
happened as they have, I would never have loved you. 
You will forgive him now, for I have." 

“You are the most generous woman living, Cora, and 
I am not half worthy of you." 

“ There, not another word of that," said Cora. “ Please 
don%" said she, when he talked on, “for here comes 
Minnie. She half suspects the truth now, and I would 
not have her certain of it, for she so dislikes Eugene that 
she would let him know it the first time they met." 

“ Dear me! Cora, what a sober face you have. Is Mrs. 
Brainard the cause?" asked Minnie. 


A WAITING HEART 1C 3 

“Mrs. Brainard only wanted to know where Eugene 
is/' she replied. 

“ Well, that is just what I am dying to find out. You 
know where he is. Now, Cora, own up." 

“ No, Minnie, I do not know where he is." 

“Well, you at least know what he left for. You won't 
tell. Well, I can guess. He proposed to you last night. 
I knew he would when I saw him stop you as you were 
about to leave the room, for he has’ been watching you 
with hungry eyes for some time past. Mrs. Brainard is 
very much disappointed because she did not find him 
here. She came to me a few moments ago, and asked in 
her sly way a number of questions about you and Eugene. 
But I told her she need not worry, for you were already 
engaged to Grant." 

“Oh, Minnie!" exclaimed Cora. 

“ Now, what harm was there in telling her? She would 
soon have known it, anyhow." 

“There was really no harm, but I do not like the way 
in which you told her." 

“ Pardon me, Cora, but it vexed me to hear her worry 
herself so much about your affairs, and caused me to 
make that saucy answer. See! the boat is going to land. 
How glad I am, for I was never so tired in my life." 

The creme de la creme of New York was in a flutter 
when their engagement came out. “The best match of 
the season," all said. “ Mr. Benoir might justly feel proud 
of his son-in-law elect, for he was the finest gentleman in 
the circle, and Gerald Lingle might think himself fortu- 
nate in getting Mr. Benoir's ward. It was not every man 
that could make half a million by marrying," the merce- 
nary people said. 

“ So, Minnie, you think you are going to be married 
for love, and not for money," said Mr. Benoir, after their 
arrival. 


104 


A WAITING HEART \ 


“ He is not going to marry me for money. You 
cannot make me lose my trust in him,, say what you will.” 

“Nor would I have you,” said he, seriously. “ When 
are you going to marry Gerald?” 

“ Whenever Cora marries Grant. I am in no hurry to 
leave you, my guardian, for you have been like a father 
to me, and endured my willfulness with kindness and 
patience.” 

“You have always acted in obedience to my wishes, 
Minnie, and it has been a pleasure to have you with me. 
Have you set any definite time for your marriage?” said 
he, turning to Cora. 

“ No, father, I have thought nothing seriously about it 
I am in no hurry to leave you, either.” 

“I forgot to tell you, Cora,” said Minnie, after Mr. 
Benoir had left the room, “ when I told Mrs. Brainard, 
yesterday, that you were engaged to Grant, Estella was 
standing by, and grew so pale that I was frightened. Do 
you believe she cares anything for Grant?” 

“ I think not.” 


CHAPTEK XIY. 

“ There is no cure in after years 
For hopeless love.” 

“ Mr. Claymore in the parlor, ma'am,” said a servant, 
looking into the room where Mrs. Brainard and Estella were 
sitting, the former reading, the latter pretending to em- 
broider a pair of slippers, but her eyes were fixed in a deep 
study, and her hands lay motionless in her lap. 

“ Are you sure he wants me — is it not Estella?” said 
Mrs. Brainard, at the same time glancing at her daughter, 
to see if she would evince any surprise. 

If Estella heard, she gave no sign, but sat still, and 
drew her needle indifferently through her embroidery. 

“Very well. Tell him 1 will be down directly,” said 


A WAITING HEABT. 


105 


she, going to the mirror, and re-arranging the great coil 
of hair at the back of her head. Then opening the door, 
she descended to the parlor. 

Estella raised her eyes as the door closed, and leaning 
back in her chair, gave a little scornful laugh, for she 
thought how devotedly he hacbfollowed her footsteps all 
summer, and how repeatedly she had chilled him when- 
ever he attempted to offer himself — and now he had come 
to her mother for help! 

“Well,” said Mrs. Brainard, about an hour after, as 
she entered the room, “I suppose you know what Mr. 
Claymore wanted?” 

“ How should I know?” 

“He wants you to be his wife!” 

“ Indeed! and expects me to consent after the petition 
has been delivered second-handed. Mr. Claymore ought 
to have known me better.” 

“ He was afraid you would refuse him!” 

“What did he come for, then?” 

“ Estella, you put me out of all patience!” 

“ Oh, pray don*t let me!” said she, ironically. 

“Estella, will you accept this man, or not?” 

“Most assuredly I will not. Go down and tell him so 
at once.” 

“ He is not here, and if he were, you should be the one 
to tell him.” 

“That would be a great pleasure for me. I will write 
him a note, for it will save him the trouble of calling 
again,” and she crossed the room for her writing-desk. 

o, you will not write him a note,” said Mrs. Brain- 
ard, who, darting forward, seized the writing-desk, 
threw it into a drawer, locked it, and put the key in her 
pocket. 

Estella surveyed her movements with the greatest non- 
chalance, then said, quietly, “I can find pen, ink and 
paper in any store in the city.” 


106 


A WAITING HEART 


Mrs. Brainard, before replying, went to the window, 
and for a few minutes gazed intently on the street below, 
then came came back to Estella, and said, in a voice just 
then marvelous for its tenderness: “ My daughter, why 
are you so careless of your own interest? Mr. Claymore 
is wealthy, and of a good family. What more could you 
wish ?” 

“ Suppose I should ask for one I could love, and that 
would love me in return, just for myself alone, and not 
for the wealth I might bring him,” said Estella, for the 
first time aroused, and something like a quiver in her 
voice which was usually so cold and even. 

“ A great fool would he be who could do that,” said 
her mother scornfully. “ Estella, after last winter’s ex- 
perience, I should think you would have banished such 
sentiments forever.” 

“ What do you mean?” she asked, looking up quickly 
in her mother’s face. 

“ I refer to your penchant for Mr. Wardleigh. You 
were in his society more or less last winter, and tried, by 
all the arts woman can command, to lure him on to a pro- 
posal of marriage. I know it all, but what . has it amount- 
ed to?” 

Estella sat still and bit her lips, while her face was 
scarlet, even to the roots of her hair. 

“ It was mean, yes, contemptible,” said she, angrily, 
“for you to watch my movements with only one aim, and 
that to glory over my defeat, as you are now doing; and 
no true mother would taunt her daughter with anything 
she knew had caused her much suffering.” 

“Suffering! Estella, talk sense. Nothing could touch 
your heart. Indeed, I have often wondered if you had 
a heart. That marble statue on the bracket yonder 
seems to have as much feeling as you.” 

“ Because I am outwardly so much like my mother, it 
does not prove that I have no feeling.” 


A WAITING HEART. 


107 


“ You are not like me," said her mother, sharply. 
“ You resemble your father — are as stubborn and as will- 
ful when you take the notion." 

“ Ah, what a pity it is that I do not possess more of his 
traits of character. If I did, you might have a hope of 
getting rid of me, but as it is, there is no help for it." 

“ I will see if there is no help for it," said her mother, 
in angry tones. 

“We shall see," said Estella, her eyes flashing. 

“ We shall see," echoed her mother, going out and 
slamming the door. 

Estella sat still. Her face, which a moment ago was 
flushed with anger, was now one of hopeless dejection. 
She buried her face in her hands, and, proud, worldly 
woman that people thought her, wept like a child. 

Ah, the world seems only the surface of the heart, and 
knows nothing of the great waves of remorse and sorrow 
that at times sweep over the soul. If it did, it would be 
Jess severe in its censure. 

“This will never do," said Estella, getting up and 
bathing her face. “ It is nearly four o'clock, and I will 
soon be summoned down to dinner. I have no desire 
to wear my heart upon my sleeve, particularly in her 
presence." 

When Estella entered the dining-room, a short time 
after, all traces of tears were removed, and her manner 
as cold and haughty as if no emotion had ever moved 
her. 

“ I have just received a letter from your cousin Eu- 
gene. He is with his grandmother," said Mrs. Brainard, 
as Estella sat down. 

Estella did not reply, but dipped her spoon leisurely up 
and down in her cup of coffee. 

“ I have just received a letter from Eugene," repeated 
her mother. 

“ So I heard you say a moment ago." 


108 


A WAITING HEART . 


“ He is visiting his grandmother/' Mrs. Brainard went 
on, “and-she has sent a very urgent invitation for you to 
visit her. Eugene is anxious that you should come, too. 
I want you to go, Estella, for much depends upon this 
visit. Yon have heretofore seemed unconscious of the 
possibility of sharing his wealth, and I want you to come 
back his promised wife. Now this is your last chance, 
for in the spring, he writes, he will leave for an extended 
European tour. They live a very retired life at his 
grandmother's, and, consequently, you will have no 
rivals, and if the result is not what I expect, I shall con- 
clude it is your own fault, for I cannot • believe my 
daughter so devoid of personal attractions as to be unable 
to win a husband," said she, in a tone intended to touch 
her pride and to arouse her to action; but Estella had 
been used to such insinuations all her life, and it fell on 
her ear unheeded, though not unheard. 

Estella listened until she was through without saying a 
word, then she looked at her mother, and said: “Sup- 
pose I should meet with success, and after the desired 
point had been gained, I should refuse — what then?" 

“ Then you must marry Mr. Claymore." 

“Must! Please explain?" 

“Well, there are two very good reasons. In the first 
place, you know, or at least you ought to know, that 
since your father died — contrary to public opinion — our 
income has been small, so small, indeed, that I have had 
to sacrifice some of the property to defray the expense of 
the trip we have taken this summer. I have done it with 
the aim of procuring you a rich husband, but so far I 
have been disappointed. And that brings me to the 
second reason, which is, that I have my own interest to 
look to, and cannot be burdened with an old maid 
daughter." 

“ Ah!" said Estella, darting a sharp look at her mother, 

I thought there was some personal interest in the mat- 


A WAITING HEART. 


101 ) 


ter, for I never knew you to advocate a case very warmly 
unless there was. What a pity you are Eugene's aunt ? 
You are so youthful looking, when you call into requisi- 
tion all the cosmetics on your toilet-table, that you might 
win him yourself. And there is Mr. Claymore, who is 
old enough to be my father. I am sure he would make 
you the most suitable husband. Take him, do, and don't 
try to force him on me!" 

“ I would be ashamed not to have any more love or 
respect for a mother than to talk to her in that manner," 
said Mrs. Brainard, in an angry voice. 

“Love! respect!" exclaimed Estella, while a smile 
played around her mouth. “Let me answer you by quot- 
ing from one of your favorite authors : * Love begets 

love; respect begets respect.' Now that I have finished, 
pray excuse me," said she, with mock courtesy. 

Mrs. Brainard let her go, feeling as if she would like 
to have dashed after her the cup she held in her hand. 

“ It is nearly time for Mr. Claymore to call," said Mrs. 
Brainard that evening to herself, as she glanced up at 
the clock, “and what to do I hardly know. She won’t 
see him, or if she did she would refuse him, that is cer- 
tain, and that will never do; for marry him she must, if 
Eugene won't have her. Then after she is gone I will 
have a chance for myself. There, I declare! if that is 
not the bell, now! Hannah, go to the door. 

“Ah! Mr. Claymore, good-evening," said she, rustling 
into the parlor a few minutes after. 

“Good-evening," said the portly figure, arising with 
some difficulty from the easy-chair. “Ahem!" and he 
played uneasily with his watch chain. “Where is your 
daughter?" 

“The dear girl has a terrible headache, and begged me 
to come in her place," said she, in a bland manner. 

“ Did you tell her what I wanted?" asked he, with 
some hesitation. 


.110 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Yes, I broached the subject to her, but she was in no 
mood to listen. I think if you only wait awhile, she wil 
give you a hearing.” 

“ But if she should refuse me?” 

“ If she should refuse you,” said Mrs. Brainard, trying 
to repress a smile, “ why then, of course, you could do 
nothing more; but you should not be faint-hearted.” 

“ I am not faint-hearted, madame, but if I humble my- 
self to ask her to be my wife, it would be a great mortifi- 
cation to have her refuse.” 

“ Most people would not think so. Loye surmounts 
all difficulties.” 

“Excuse me, madame,” said he, dryly, “but I never 
professed to love your daughter. I consider her a very 
estimable young lady, also very handsome and stylish, 
but I do not love her, nor do I ask for love in return. I 
want to give my house a fine mistress, one who can rule 
over my household with taste, and do credit to my guests, 
and such a one I believe I shall find in your daughter. ^ 

He waited a minute after having delivered this little 
pompous speech, to see if she would reply, but as she did 
not, he arose to leave, remarking: “ As there is no pros- 
pect of seeing your daughter at present, I might as well 
say good-night.” 

“ Good-night, sir.” 

“What a conceited fool!” said Mrs. Brainard, as soon 
as the door closed. “What a ‘ shade of the mighty 9 he 
thinks himself. Estella, frivolous as she is, is too good 
for him, but it is no time to have conscientious scruples. 
He will let her dress, and fill the house with guests, and 
she will be content. ” 

“ Now for another lecture,” said Estella, the next 
morning, as she stood before the mirror, brushing out her 
long, sunny hair, before going down to breakfast. “ I 
wonder what she told Mr. Claymore last night. I hope 
he will feel himself insulted, and stay away in the 


A WAITING HEART , 111 

future. No wonder father buried himself so much in his 
library. For my part, I would as soon meet a band of 
savages, as to face her when she is bent on putting one of 
her darling projects into execution. I sometimes wonder 
if she really can be my mother, we understand and love 
each other so little. How ridiculous it is in her to try to 
make me marry Eugene, or old Mr. Claymore! — How 
Eugene would laugh if he knew she looked upon him as 
her future son-in-law! No, my aristocratic mamma, if 
ever I marry, it will be a man of Mr. Wardleigh’s stamp, 
and not a thorough man of the world like Eugene Tracy. 
Ah, how happy Cora Benoir must be! and yet, Cora was 
once the betrothed of my dissipated cousin, and loved him 
dearly, too, if there is any truth in the notes from her 
that I found in an old portfolio of his, not long ago. 
How we do live things down in this world ! I am ready, 
I believe,” she said, taking a last look in the glass. Then 
she sauntered slowly down the stairs into the dining- 
room, and took a seat at the table. 

Mrs. Brainard looked up and gave her a frigid good- 
morning, and then, to Estella’s surprise, was silent the 
rest of the meal. Thus two or three days passed, each 
ignoring the other’s presence, only when it was actually 
necessary to use a few words of common courtesy. Mrs. 
Brainard grew uneasy at last, when she saw Estella give 
no signs of relenting. One morning she again broached 
the old subject. 

“ Estella, when are you going to make that promised 
visit?” 

“ I have no recollection of promising to visit any one.” 

“Why, are you not going to do as Eugene wished?” 

“ Certainly not!” replied she, with emphasis. 

“Very well, then, Stewart shall hand to you what 
remains as your portion, and you can go! Such an 
ungrateful daughter shall not stay under my roof any 
longer,” 


m 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Just as you please, mother; your society is not so de- 
lightful that one should desire to remain in it. But are'nt 
you afraid such a course will ruin your future prospects? 
Your elderly gentlemen friends will be, sure to think you 
are somewhat cramped in money affairs, and what would 
they want you for but your wealth?” 

Mrs. Brainard shot a fierce glance of hatred at her 
daughter, but she leisurely buttered her toast, and took 
no notice of it. 

“Miss Estella, here is a letter your mother told me to 
give you,” said Hannah, coming out into the hall as 
Estella prepared to go and call on Cora, the morning after 
her conversation with her mother. 

“From Eugene,” said she, breaking the seal and sit- 
ting down on the steps to read it. A smile played around 
her lips as she read the postscript, as follows: 

“ f Estella, if you have any heart, you will take pity on 
me and accept grandmother’s invitation. It is dreadful 
lonely here, and I am dying to see some one, but am 
obliged to stay a while, out of respect to the old lady. 
Come, and bring me all the latest news/” 

“The latest news!” said Estella to herself. “I sup- 
pose that means all about Cora and Grant. I wonder if 
he does care anything for her. Hannah, tell mother that 
I shall be home for dinner,” said she, as she passed out of 
the door. 

“ Cora,” said Estella, as she arose to go, after having 
made her call, “ I have just received a letter from Eu_ 
gene. He is at his grandmother's, and he is so lonely 
there that he wants me to visit them. I have a mind 
to go.” 

“ I would if I were you, Estella; you don’t know what 
good you might do him. Your presence would shield 
him from so many temptations,” said she, speaking with 
more warmth than she intended. 

Estella watched her somewhat narrowly, for she was 


A WAITING HEART. 


113 


trying to see what effect her words would have. Cora 
noticed it, and grew embarrassed. 

“ When do you think of starting, Estella?” she asked 
at length. 

“Immediately. ” 

“ Grant is going to leave to-morrow evening for S -. 

I believe it is very near the place where Eugene now is* 
He would be glad to take you under his protection, I 
know. I will tell him to-night, if you wish me to.” 

She had not really thought of going, but to know that 
here was an opportunity to be near him, was enough to 
change her mind, and she accepted it gratefully, without 
hesitation. 

“ Cora, you have not told me anything about your 
marriage,” said Estella, as she was about to leave, “ is it 
to be soon?” 

“ No, not for a year, at least. You shall get timely 
warning to appear when it has been arranged,” said 
Cora, smiling. “ Please give Eugene my kindest re- 
gards.” 

“ What a fool I have been to consent to go!” said Es- 
tella to herself, as she walked homeward. “ It is only 
laying more sorrow in store for me. The oftener I see 
him, the greater will be the struggle to crush out this 
feeling. I was mad, blind, to let myself be so deluded. 
I might have known from the first that he loved Cora. 
One by one every joy melted from my grasp. Once, 

* I yearned for the future, vague and vast : 

And lo ! what treasure of glorious things 
Giant futurity shed from his wings.’ 

Now, I am without hope. I find no rest or peace at 
home, and the future is like a troubled sea. Oh, Grant! 
you had it in your hands to make a good, true woman of 
me,” she cried. 

“ Mother,” said Estella, entering the room where she 


114 


A WAITING HEART . 


was sitting, “I will start on that long-talked-of visit to- 
morrow, if you have no objection." 

“ I have none," said her mother, careful not to show 
how much it pleased her. 

“ Very well, then it is settled. 

“ What has Eugene written?" 

“ His letter was very brief. He said he was very lonely; 
but here is the letter, you may read it if you wish." 

“ I am afraid Eugene is in trouble. He does not stay 
in that dreary place for nothing," said Mrs. Brainard, 
glancing over his letter. 

“ He says, does he not, that he stays out of respect for 
his grandmother?" 

“Nonsense! Eugene cares too little for any person’s 
opinion, to subject himself to any privations. Mark my 
words he is in some difficulty." 

“Nothing serious, I think. Eugene never goes be- 
yond a certain point in anything." 

“ Oh, there is no telling what a man would do. What, 
train will you leave on?" 

“The earliest evening train." 

“ If I were going alone, it would be, but Mr. Ward- 

leigh will start on the evening train for S ; it is near 

my destination, you know. Cora said it would be better 
to wait and have him go with me." 

“Estella, Mr. Wardleigh wishes to see you," said Mrs. 
Brainard, the next morning after breakfast. 

“ Cora told me you were going to see Eugene," said 
Grant, as Estella entered the room. “ I shall be happy 

to accompany you as far as S . Shall I call for you 

this evening?" 

“ If it will put you to no inconvenience." 

“None at all.- Excuse me for not staying longer, but 
I shall be very busy until I leave." 

Estella went to her room, and had almost completed 
packing her trunk, when she suddenly stopped and said 


A WAITING HEART. 


115 


t€ I would like to know what I am going for. It is not 
because this visit promises to be a pleasant one, for it 
truly will not, nor because my mother will be pleased at 
my going, but, it is because, for a few hours, I shall have 
the pleasure of being by Grant’s side. What folly!” and 
she threw down the lid of her trunk so heavily that it 
jarred the shelves above her head, bringing down an old 
portfolio of Eugene’s, and scattering the letters it con- 
tained over the floor. Estella gathered them up, and was 
about to replace them, when she noticed they were the 
old notes of Cora’s that she had read a short time before. 
A new thought floated across her mind; she put them 
together, tied them with a string, and placed them in her 
trunk. Long after, that one act caused her years of suf- 
fering and remorse, for it changed the whole current of 
her life. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ Aye, now I am in Arden ; the more fool 
I, when I was at home I was in a better place.” 

It was a cozy little room in which Estella was sitting. 
A bright fire glowed in the grate, throwing its light over 
the soft carpet, luxuriant chairs and pictures, brackets 
and statues that adorned the walls. On a divan near 
one of the windows, reclined Eugene, a volume of Buskin 
in his hand, but his eyes were fixed on Mignon, hanging 
oppposite. 

“ What do you find so attractive in that picture?” asked 
Estella. 

“I was thinking how much it resembled CoraBenoir.” 

“ Eugene, why did you not marry Cora Benoir?” 

“ Perhaps I never wanted to,” said he, his dark eyes 
scanning her face to see if he could read what she was 
aiming at. 

“ There may be some truth in that, but why were you 
engaged to her?” 


116 


A WAITING HEART 


“ Could I not be engaged to her without having any 
serious intentions?” asked he, impatiently. 

“Yes, but that would not be honorable.” 

“Don't talk of honor, Estella, for neither of us has 
much of it.” 

“You are very frank, for once in your life.” 

“It is a pity I am not always so. Come, tell me how 
you found out I was engaged to her. Did she tell you?” 

“Did you ever know Cora to tell anything?” 

“You refuse to tell?” * 

“ At present I do.” 

“Very well, I am not anxious to know.” 

“I did not suppose you would be. Do you know how 
long she has been engaged to Grant Wardleigh?” 

“ How should I know!” 

“I thought Grant ftndyou were^uch intimate friends.” 

“ So we are, but he did not tell me that. Men don't 
talk about their affairs as women do,” replied he, getting 
up and leaving the room, as if the conversation displeased 
him. 

“How provoking he is!” mentally exclaimed Estella. 
“ If he cares for Cora, he does not show it. Yet I am 
convinced something is the matter, or he would not have 
left Wardleigh's so suddenly, and Cora would not speak 
so shyly of him. I hope his interest may be as great as 
mine, for without his aid my plan would accomplish 
nothing, and I want to be certain of my mark before I 
betray myself.” 

Sorrow makes us either better or worse. Had Estella's 
life flowed on in a smooth, unbroken channel, it would 
have been free from shame or blame. But her happiness 
had all been swept away at one fell swoop, and after her 
great paroxysm of sorrow, she was determined to regain 
it, if it was within the limit of human power. 

A few months ago she would have been horrified at the 
sell erne she had planned, but now she did not stop to 


A WAITING HEART. 


m 

think of the wrong or its consequence. Eugene, unprin- 
cipled as he was, had sent for her with no deeper motive 
than to hear about Cora, but she had gone to find a con- 
federate in her crime. 

“What a blue day it is,” said Estella, an hour later, 
coming to the window where Eugene was looking out at 
the drenching rain. 

“ Yes, and it makes me miserable. How I detest such 
weather! 

“ ‘ Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days be dark and dreary,’ ” 
hummed he. “ There is more truth than poetry in those 
lines, don’t you think, Estella?” 

“Yes, if one may judge from experience. 

“ Estella, I would give up every cent I possess to be a 
boy again.'” 

She looked incredulous. 

“Believe it or not, I am tired to death of the life I 
have led for the past five years.” 

“Why?” 

“You, who pretend to know me so well, ought not to 
ask why. ‘ Truly the way of the transgressor is hard.’ 

“ Have you just found that out?” asked Estella, ironic- 
ally. 

“No, but it never came home with such force un- 
til ” He stopped there and did not finish the sen- 

tence. 

“ Until you were bitterly disappointed,” said she, finish- 
ing it for him. “Eugene, I can tell your past better 
than any astrologer.” 

“Please favor me with a recital of all my misdeeds,” 
said he, laughing, and sitting down in a chair. “I am 
just in a mood to listen.” 

“ I shall only tell you of what is grieving you most. 
You flirted with Cora Benoir when she was a pale, faded, 
and rather awkward girl, staying at our home. You had 


118 


A WAITING HEART . 


been used to the society of ladies who were as great flirts 
as yourself,, but here was one entirely different from any 
you had ever met. She was young and innocent, and so 
full of truth that she did not doubt the truthfulness of 
others. You took advantage of all this and gained her 
love, then becoming wearied of it, trampled on it. She 
bore this as women of her disposition always do — without 
complaint or murmur. After long years you met her 
again, and the pale, awkward girl had matured into a 
beautiful, graceful woman, and as good as beautiful, 
when you fell in love with her in earnest, but it was too 
late,” said she, speaking slowly, and watching his face 
closely to see if she had hit the truth. “And that is 
why,” she went on, “you are moping away here by your- 
self. Is it not so, cousin?” 

He darted a half-sad, half-sullen glance at her, and 
said: “If it were, you are not the one to tell it to. You 
are so unsympathetic.” 

Estella was gaining her point, and not heeding his re- 
ply, she said: “ Suppose all obstacles were removed from 
your path; would you marry Cora?” 

“ Gladly,” said he, forgetting his anxiety to conceal 
from her the truth. 

“Well, then, suppose I could remove these obstacles?” 

“How could you do it?” asked he, looking up quickly 
into her face. 

“ Believe me, I can do it if you will help me.” 

“You could not honorably.” 

“Let me remind you of what you said a few moments 
ago about honor.” 

“ But I promised Cora I would try and lead a different 
life.” 

“ Oh, well, then, I do not want to make you break 
your promise,” and she walked away. 

“Come back, Estella; don’t be foolish; 1 want to ask 
you something. ” 


A WAITING HEART . 


119 


"" Well, what is it?” 

‘"Have you not' some self-interest in the matter? It 
seems to me you are very anxious about it.” 

"" Could I not be so, because I want to see you happy?” 

""No, Estella, you never take trouble for nothing.” 

""Would you be very much surprised to hear that I 
love Grant Wardleigh ?” 

""Yes, for I did not think your heart could be stirred 
to anything deeper than self love. Don't look at me so 
fiercely, but tell me how you propose to work this 
miracle.” 

"" A few weeks ago I found an old portfolio of yours, and 
in it were several notes that she had written to you, the 
three weeks you visited here while she was with us. Now, 
Eugene, all you will have to do is to change the date of 
each, and if Grant comes to see us before he returns to 
New York, as he promised, to show him, in a confiden- 
tial way, one or more of these notes. He has never told 
you that he was engaged to Cora, and will take it for 
granted you know nothing about it. I will do all that is 
needful. Grant will lose his trust in Cora, and each will 
be too proud to ask for an explanation. Then after a 
time you can urge your claims.” 

""You tempt me, Estella, but it will break Cora's 
heart.” 

"" Don't fear. She loved you first, loved you deeply, 
too. Who knows but that she would have accepted you, 
had she been free, for she loved no one else for four long 
years. Grant Wardleigh is a great favorite of her father. 
She may have accepted him for that reason.” 

It looked probable to Eugene. The song she sang him 
— her parting words — came before his mind. Why would 
she take this interest, unless she cared for him, particu- 
larly, after the way in which he had treated her? 

""What will )0u do?” asked Estella, impatient with 
his silence. 


120 


A WAITING HEART, \ 


ct Have you the notes with you?” 

“ Yes, and will get them in a moment.” 

“ I will think about it to-night, and tell you the result 
in the morning,” said he, as he took them. 

Ah, had the beautiful, white-faced temptress forgotten 
a father's prayers, a father's loving counsel? Did she 
think of the kindness of the friend whose life she was 
blighting? One would have thought not, had they seen 
her as she paced up and down the room, a triumphant 
light in her eyes and a bright flush on her cheeks. 

That night Eugene took the notes Estella had given 
him, and unfolding them, read the contents which five 
years ago he had laughed to scorn. They were tender, 
womanly little missives, and an electric thrill ran through 
his veins as he looked over them now. Ah, he would 
have given all the wealth of the Orient, had he possessed 
it, to know that she loved him, to receive only one line 
written by her hand, breathing the same spirit the notes 
did. 

He took up a pen, changed the date of one, then threw 
the pen down. The good angel was at work in his heart, 
and the pale face of his mother, which long years ago had 
laid in the coffin, came before him. Should he drown all 
his good resolutions, and go back in the path which had 
brought him but little pleasure, a great deal of sorrow, a 
great deal of remorse ? He took the notes and went to 
the grate. He would throw them in, put them out of the 
way of tempting him. Then he thought of Estella's 
words: 

“ She loved you first, who knows but that she would 
have accepted you had she been free.” 

He came back to the table, laid the notes on it, and 
taking up a pen, again changed the dates of each to suit, 
then threw them into a drawer and locked it. 

He was tempted a dozen times that night to destroy the 
old letters, He thought of Cora's advice, of his promise 


a waiting heart . 


121 

to her, then of Grant’s kindness and the way he was about 
to repay it. Had he known the utter impossibility of her 
ever loving him, he would have been true to his resolve; 
but Estella awakened hope in his breast, and selfishness 
conquered. 

At breakfast the next morning, Estella looked across 
the table at Eugene, and said: 

“ Well?” 

“ I have done as you wished,” he replied, “ and re- 
member that whatever happens now, it is your fault.” 

“Thou can’st not say I did it,” she laughingly replied. 

They received invitations to dinner, that day, at one 
of Eugene’s old friends. They went, and on returning, 
found Grant Wardleigh had been there, and gone away, 
leaving word that he would call a few minutes in the 
morning, before he left for the city. 

“Confound it!” said Eugene, when he heard it. 

For a moment Estella said nothing, but her face show- 
ed how disappointed she was. 

“ Eugene, you must see him to-night, and make him 
stay here until he leaves. Remember, your time is 
precious, and whatever you do must be done quickly, or 
it will be too late !” 

“ It is just five o’clock,” said he, looking at his watch. 
“ I have time to bring him up to supper, if I can find 
him.” 

As soon as Eugene had gone, Estella went to her 
room, and never did she pay such attention to her toilet 
as she did that evening, for she was dressing with an 
aim, now. She wore a heavy silk, trimmed in costly lace, 
not the least showy, but elegant and plain, and in her 
ears and at her throat, she wore corals that matched the 
scarlet of her lips. She stood before the glass, apparently 
well pleased with the result, for her face and hands looked 
very fair in the dark dress, relieved by a bit of white lace. 


m 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Now, if he only comes,” said she, walking up and 
down the floor. 

She heard a clear, ringing laugh, and looking out of 
the window, saw Eugene and Grant approach the house, 
and her heart beat fast as the frank, manly face looked 
upon her and bowed. 

“ You are looking well, my dear,” said Eugene's grand- 
mother, Mrs. Sinclair, as Estella passed through her 
room. “ Is Mr. Wardleigh a particular friend of yours?” 
she asked, smiling. 

“ He is. You saw him to-day; how do you like him?” 

“He is very pleasant; has a fine, open face, and I was 
much pleased with him. But go, my dear, I hear Eugene's 
voice in the hall." 

She welcomed him with a sweet smile, and something 
like a blush mantled her cheek as he took her hand; her 
calm stoicism melted away under his genial smile. That 
night she exerted every faculty — talked to him as she had 
never talked before, while Eugene looked on with a cyni- 
cal light in his eyes. 

“It is nearly twelve o'clock, Estella,” said Eugene, at 
last. “ Grant is no doubt very fatigued, and I propose 
that we retire.” 

“ I had no idea it was so late. I am afraid I have tired 
you, Miss Estella,” said Grant. 

“Not at all; this has been a very pleasant evening.” 

“ Come, make yourself at home,” said Eugene, push- 
ing him an easy-chair before the fire, “and decide to 
stay over to-morrow.” - 

“Could not, possibly. I am so very busy." 

“Estella says you are becoming quite popular. Oh! 
by the way, I had several new books sent to me the other 
day. One of them contains a severe criticism on Blanch- 
ard's last work. Let me show it to you,” and he drew 
up a small, carved stand, and took from it a book, being 
careful as he did so, to drop from it at Grant's feet, one 


A WAITING HEART. 


m 


of Cora's letters. Grant, of course, stooped to pick it up, 
the handwriting attracting his attention. 

“ Do you get letters from Cora?" he asked, while his 
eyes opened wide with astonishment. 

“Mydeaj* fellow, did you not know that? But how 
should you; I have not given you my confidence of late. 
Read it, and let it explain, for I feel too indolent to re- 
peat it." 

“No, I thank you. She would not care to have me." 

“ Not when I give you my permission? It would be no 
breach of confidence." 

Grant hesitated a moment, then slowly unfolded the 
letter as if deliberating something in his mind. At last 
he read, and his face turned ashy pale. He took a letter 
from his pocket, compared the two, then laid it down in 
silence, and picked up the book. 

“ Cool way to treat me. I think I deserve your con- 
gratulations." 

“Hardly; you might have told me before." 

“Positively, this is the first time I have had a chance." 

“Show me what you wished me to read," said he, 
coolly, changing the subject, “then we will retire." 

What the result of this maneuver would be, he could 
not tell, but he did know that there was a terrible strug- 
gle going on in his heart, and that love and confidence 
had received a powerful blow. He took no notice of this 
sudden change; it was no part of his to do so. But that 
night his heart smote him for what he had done, when 
from the lips of Grant there came .the cry of Cora. Ah! 
even in his dreams, his honest, generous heart was being- 
torn by a thousand conflicting emotions, that his once 
trusted friend, and for aught he knew, still trusted friend, 
had caused. 

Estella arose early the next morning, and when Eugene, 
came down the stairs, she caught him by the arm, an 
eager, questioning light in her eyes. 


124 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ I have done it,” he said, in answer to her look; then 
he pushed her away rudely, impatiently, as if he loathed 
her. 

She walked away surprised, mortified, for she did not 
expect to see that sullen look upon his face. 

If a man truly loves, and the object of his affection be 
a true, noble woman, it cannot but shed a good influence 
over him. 

Estella did not know how much good Cora's words had 
done, for he hated her, hated himself, because he had 
been so weak as to commit such a deed. 

Estella had dressed for effect in the evening, so had she 
this morning. Perhaps she had never appeared to better 
advantage than she did in the blue dress she wore, which 
contrasted well with the dazzling pearl and rose of her 
complexion. But it was all lost on Grant. No stone 
image could have been more unconscious of beauty or 
taste than he was at the time. 

She was somewhat awed when he met her at breakfast, 
for his face was very pale, betokening a night of pain 
and unrest. She was kind, but asked no questions. 

“ Tell Cora,” she said, when he bade her good-bye, 
“ that I sent my love.” 

He bowed low. He probably would not see Miss Cora, 
but if he did, he would deliver her message. She gave 
a little look of surprise, that was all, knowing that the 
first scene was over; but when would come the 
“ Last scene of all 

That ends this strange, eventful history?'’ 
****** * 

“A letter, Miss Cora,” said a servant, entering the 
room where she and Minnie were sitting. 

“Cora!” came quickly from Minnies lips, and she 
picked up a crystal goblet and dashed the contents in her 
face, for she was ashy pale, and clinging to a chair for 


A WAITING HEART \ 


125 


support, while the letter the servant had given her but a 
moment ago, was lying at her feet. 

“I am not fainting, Minnie,” said Cora, wiping the 
water from her face. 

“ You look as if you were. What was in that letter to 
hurt you so?” 

“ Don't ask me,” said Cora, picking up the letter and 
putting it in her pocket, “ for I cannot tell you.” 

Minnie asked no questions, for she knew it would be 
useless. 

Cora went to her room, and once more drew out the 
letter, as if to make sure it was not all some terribe dream. 

“ Miss Be^toie, — I n loving you, I gave you my whole 
heart, strong and undivided — a heart that never belonged 
in the slightest degree to another. You were my first - 
love and will be my last. Being deceived in one woman 
whom I thought an angel, is enough; I ask for no further 
experience. I need not explain; your own guilty heart 
will tell you all. Henceforth we can be nothing to each 
other. Grant Wardleigh.” 

“ Oh, what have I done,” she cried, “that he should 
treat me in this way!” 

“ Where is Cora?” asked Mr. Benoir of Minnie, when 
he came home to dinner. 

“She is not well, and did not wish any dinner.” 

“I will go up and see her,” said he, “ in spite of her 
protest against it.” 

“ My daughter, what is the matter?” asked he, when 
he entered the room and found her weeping. 

She raised her tear-stained face, and with a cry, threw 
herself into her father's arms. 

“ Tell me all, my child,” said he, kindly. 

For an answer, she placed the note in his hand. 

His brow grew dark as he read. “There is some 
strange mistake here; let me see him?” 


126 


A WAITING HEART, 


“No, father, he does not wish me to explain. He has 
lost his confidence in me, and though I suffer deeply, I do 
not wish for love that could not trust through all.” 

“He is only jealous. Some one has misrepresented 
you to him.” 

“ I never gave him cause for jealousy; never gave him 
cause to mistrust me; and, father, let it be a forbidden 
subject between us.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ ’Tis doubly vile, when 
You fix an arrow in a blameless heart.” 

“ I AM going home to-morrow,” said Estella to Eugene, 
one morning, after reading a letter from home. 

“What for?” 

“Mother has written, it is rumored that the engage- 
ment between Grant and Cora has been broken off.” 

“ Is it not what you expected?”' 

“ Yes; and now it is time to work for my interest.” 

“ And that is what you have been working for all the 
while. I don't think you consulted my interest at all.” 

“ Have you not a good chance of winning, too? It will 
be your own fault if you do not succeed.” 

“Perhaps so,” said he, dryly. 

“ Cora is as free as Grant. They are both our friends; 
are not our chances equal ?” 

“No, for I cannot see her.” 

“You can come to New York.” 

“I would not like to. She would think it strange that 
I knew her engagement was broken.” 

“Not at all. As soon as I go home I will call and tell 
her that I have heard the report, and express my sur- 
prise. She will tell me all about it, and will think, of 
course, that I have told you. After being in New York 
awhile, we will call together, and after that you can call 


A WAITING HEART 127 

alone. You will know from the manner in which she 
treats you how to proceed.” 

“ I dislike to go back, for I bade Cora adieu forever, 
and told Grant that I would leave for Europe in the 
spring.” 

“ You can tell them you have changed your mind. I 
am surprised to find you so faint-hearted. You was not 
so once. And one that has made love to so many ladies 
as you, ought not to come to me for advice.” 

“ Making love in fun, and making love in earnest are 
two very different things, Estella.” 

“ I suppose so, but I do not think you will have any 
trouble, even if it be a case of true love, and if you do, 
the end will justify it.” 

“Shall I go home with you?” he asked, at length. 

“You could not have a better excuse, and then it 
would keep mother quiet.” 

“Estella is going home to-morrow, and I am going 
with her, grandmother,” said Eugene, entering her room, 
a few minutes after his conversation with Estella. 

“ Are you coming back to me soon, Eugene?” 

“Not soon, I think.” 

“ I am so sorry. If I could only be near you always! 
It is selfishness in me to even wish that you might prefer 
this little village to the city, but your mother with her 
latest breath gave you to me. Oh ! you know not how 
earnestly I have prayed that you might not be led into 
temptation, for I felt that I could not meet your mother 
and know that I had failed to do my duty by her child. 
I am growing old, Eugene — ere you return I may be laid 
to rest. Try and do right; try to do as you think your 
angel mother would wish you to, and strive to meet her 
in Heaven.” 

Eugene’s Jieart was touched when he saw the tears 
gliding down her wrinkled cheeks, and all his broken 
resolutions arose before him, Why had he not kept 


m 


A WAITING HEART. 


them? Why had he given up his peace of mind? Ah, 
yes! why? 

“ Grandmother, I am not worthy of your prayers; do 
not waste them on me. You do not know how wicked I 
have been.” 

“No, Eugene, I know nothing, comparatively, about 
your past life, but be it as it may, I shall never cease 
praying for you, never give up the hope that you will yet 
be gathered into the fold.” 

Eugene was silent, for he knew how useless were her 
prayers, how useless were her hopes, yet he would not 
pain her patient heart by telling her so. 

“You have been a good, dear grandmother to me,” said 
he, respectfully touching his lips to the hand that lay on 
his own, “ and I hope that you may live to a good old age, 
and that I may spend many pleasant weeks here before 
you are laid to rest.” 

“ I know that I have not long to live, Eugene, for I 
feel myself failing day by day. It is not an unpleasant 
thought to know that the Master will soon call me, for 
one by one they have all passed away — all that were near 
and dear to me. But you remain, and you will soon 
marry and form new ties, and will not miss your old 
grandmother.” 

“ Yes, grandmother, I would miss you, and no one*s 
death would cause me as much grief as yours.” 

“ Has Eugene been a bad boy, grandmother, and have 
im of his naughtiness,” asked Estella, 



“No, I never think he is a bad boy. We have been 
talking of the past, and of his mother.” 

“Ah!” said Estella. 

“ Come and walk down to the village, Eugene, I have 
an errand there,” said she, after a time. 

Eugene obeyed reluctantly, for he felt as if she always 
came to banish his good impulses. But out from his 


A WAITING HEART. 


12 ® 

grandmothers presence, out into the cold, sharp air, and 
Estella by his side, laughing at his sober face, his con- 
science was soon hushed. 

“ You used to preach to ine about honor and truth, 
Estella, and Pharisee-like, stand off and say, ‘ 1 am better 
than thou/ but how bravely you have gotten over it all/’ 
said Eugene, scornfully, for lie was not pleased to hear 
her ridicule him for being touched at his grandmothers 
words. 

“ Circumstances always alter cases. I am aware I am 
not the girl I was once/'' 

“Then don't laugh when another lias a sober thought, 
Estella." 

“ What good does your sober thoughts — as you call 
them — do when you are going straight to make mis- 
chief?" 

“ I would spoil your prospects, if it were not for proving 
my falseness to Grant." 

“I would not stop for such a small consideration," said 
Estella, ironically. 

Eugene frowned and was silent, but he felt as if he 
would like to have boxed her ears soundly. Estella smil- 
ed to herself, because he dared make no outcry, let her be 
as tantalizing as she pleased. 

“Do not look so much like clouds in November," said 
Estella to Eugene, that evening, “and T will tell you 
what mother says in a postscript to her letter, that 1 
overlooked in the hasty reading that was given it this 
morning. She said that she met Cora the day before she 
wrote, and that she inquired after you very kindly. You 
see that she has not forgotten you, at least. There is 
something else that I have to say to you. You know why 
mother was so anxious to have me come here, and when 
we return you must appear very devoted to me before her, 
or she will have old Mr. Claymore visiting me." 

“You need not see him against your will." 


130 


A WAITING HEART. 


“Xo, but it is unpleasant to be forever quarreling 
about it. She is determined to get rid of me " 

“Sensible woman/' said Eugene, interrupting her. 

Estella went on, and did not heed his remark. 

“ And unless she thinks there is some prospect of my 
marrying you, she will never give me any peace until I 
have Mr. Claymore." 

Mrs. Brainard was delighted to find that Eugene had 
returned with Estella, and she drew her aside, telling her 
that she had done a sensible thing for once, and that he 
would make her a much better husband than Mr. Clay- 
more. 

“So I thought," said Estella. 

“ It is very pleasant to have you with us again, Eugene. 
Do you intend remaining all winter?" said Mrs. Brainard. 

“Yes, and probably longer, if Tdo not go to Europe in 
the spring. Estella has almost persuaded me out of the 
notion," said Eugene, glancing across the room at Estella, 
who sat reading by the fire. 

“Has she? It was very kind in you to comply with 
her request," said Mrs. Brainard, well pleased. 

Eugene guessed her thoughts, and smiled secretly at 
her mistake. 

“ I sent word to Cora that I was at home, and to come 
and stay all the evening," said Estella to Eugene, the 
next day. “ She has sent word back that she had an 
engagement, but would call this afternoon. When you 
think she has been here long enough to tell me her 
troubles, you can come in, and probably she will invite 
you to call. I want you to do a favor for me, now that 
I have planned this for you. Probably it will be weeks 
before I can see Grant, and you must get him to call to- 
morrow evening, but at the same time, be careful not to 
let him know that I am anxious about it." 

“ I am puzzled, Estella, to know how you are going to 
proceed, after you do meet him. He knew that Cora told 


A WAITING HEART . i3i 

you she was engaged to him; he will know also that you 
have heard the rumor that it is broken off.” 

“ No, for I will tell him you never gave him your con- 
fidence, and that Cora kept the truth from me because 
she knew my mother was resolved that I should marry 
you. Only get him here — that is all I ask of you!” 

“Dear Cora, how glad I am to see you!” said Estella, 
that afternoon, when Cora came. “It has been such a 
long while since I saw you. You look pale; have you 
been sick?” 

“ No, but not as well as usual!” 

“What has become of Grant and Gerald?” asked^ 
Estella, at length. 

“ Gerald still waits on Minnie. They will be married 
soon. 

“ Are you not going to marry at the same time?” 

“I shall not marry at all,” said Cora, sadly. “Grant 
is angry with me.” 

“Grant angry? That is unlike him. What have vou 
done?” 

“ Nothing that I know of. I received a brief note 
from him, just after he returned home, saying that hence- 
forth it would be best that we remain as strangers, and 
that it was not necessary for him to explain, or for me to 
make any excuses. Did he say anything to you?” 

“He said nothing about being angry with you, nor was 
he angry, for when I congratulated him he told me that 
he was as happy as it was possible for man to be. Why 
not ask him, Cora, what you have done to offend him?” 

“He told me, you remember, to make no excuses, and 
I am too proud to do so, but Estella, you do not know 
what a heavy heart it has made me carry all this while.” 

“ My dear friend, I am truly sorry for you. I wish it 
were in my power to make you happy. But never mind; 
everything happens for the best. All will come right 
yet. If Grant really loves you, he will return.” 


A WAITING HEART 


182 

Eugene just then opened the door and came in. 

Cora sprang up and held out her hand, saying: “Es- 
tella, why did you not tell me that he was here?” 

“ I wanted to surprise you, for I had such a time in 
getting him to consent to come.” 

“ Are you going to remain all the winter in the city?” 

“I really cannot tell. Miss Cora,” he replied. 

“ I must go, Estella, for father will have a friend to 
dinner, and I have to he there. You both must call!” 

“Give Grant my compliments when you see him to- 
night, and tell him that I am coming down to his office 
in the morning,” said Eugene, when he put Cora into 
her carriage. 

“ I shall not see Grant; he does not call on me any 
more!” 

“Why, are you not engaged to him?” 

“Not now!” 

“May I call on you then?” 

“ Certainly. You are my friend, and will be welcome 
at any time.” 

“May I call to-morrow evening?” he asked, at a ven- 
ture. 

“I have an engagement then; you may call the next/* 

Eugene bowed and left her, and went down to Grant 
Wardleigh’s office, but he was not there. “ It don’t mat- 
ter much,” thought Eugene, “whether she sees him or 
not. I have had to bear all her tuants and commit all 
the crime, and I think deserve all the gain.” 

“ Grant was not at his office, Estella,” said Eugene, on 
his return. “ I will go again in the morning. 1 have made 
an engagement with Cora for Thursday evening.” 

•• You are progressing nicely; but do not call too often 
at first, for she may suspect your love, and put an end 
to it.” 

“What was she talking about when I came in?” 


A WAITING HEART 


133 


“ About Grant Wardleigh. He never explained, nor 
would he let her explain, which is fortunate for us both/' 1 

“ Well, Estella, it is doubtful whether I can get him 
here; he would give me no positive answer.” 

“ How did he treat you?” 

“Rather coldly. I don't suppose he ever will be the 
friend to me again that he has been.” 

“You ought not to expect it.” 

“ Grant has come,” said Eugene, tapping on Estella's 
door, that evening. “Make the most of it, for I don't 
think I can get him here again. He seems very despond- 
ent.” 

Estella went down into the parlor, and for the first 
time found Grant Wardleigh hard to entertain. He was 
quiet, and answered everything in monosyllables. Estella 
was almost in despair, but was determined to gain her 
point. 

“Mr. Wardleigh,” said Estella, “I am afraid you think 
I was aware of the engagement that existed between my 
cousin and Cora Benoir, when I congratulated you. Cora 
V)ld me she was engaged to you, and I did not know it 
was otherwise until to-day; then Eugene told me.” 

“No, Estella, I never thought you knew of the engage- 
ment.” 

“I have often wondered why Cora told me what she 
lid. She must have been afraid to tell me the truth, 
6ecause she knew my mother was anxious that Eugene 
and I ahould marry. Who would have thought Cora 
would have told an untruth!” 

“I would not,” he replied, briefly, and all attempts 
were unavailing to make him speak of Cora, again! 

“You are not going?” said Eugene, coming in, and 
finding Grant ready to depart. 

“ Yes, it's ten o'clock.” 

“ I trust this is but the commencement of many pleas- 
ant evenings like this,” said Estella. 


134 


A WAITING HEART 


“ Thank you, I shall be pleased to call again/’ 

“Well, Estella, how are you succeeding?” asked 
Eugene, after Grant had left. 

“ Very well, considering how full his heart is of Cora 
It will take him some time to live down his love.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ But ties around this heart were spun 
That would not, could not be undone.” 

“ Where are you going, Cora?” asked Minnie. 

“ To see my seamstress, who is sick,” said she filling a 
small basket full of delicacies to take along with her. 

“ You are looking more cheerful than usual.” 

“ To do a kindly errand makes me cheerful.” 

“ I thought perhaps you had 'Seen Grant.” 

“No,” said she, sadly. 

“I would forget him, Cora.” 

“ Oh, if it were possible!” thought Cora, as she walked 
down the street, “for my heart which was once full 
freighted with the fondest hopes woman ever cherished, 
now lies crushed and dying. Dreary indeed would be my 
lot, if I had but one hope, one aim; but there still re- 
mains for me the pleasure of making others happy, if I 
am not happy myself.” 

Her walk was soon ended, and going into the house, 
she found Grant Wardleigh talking to the seamstress 
about some work. For a moment her heart beat violently, 
and a faint flush spread over her face, then she bowed, 
and took the chair he offered her. Grant took up his 
hat and gloves to leave. As he passed Cora, the small 
seal he wore on his watch-chain became unfastened, and 
fell at her feet. She picked it up and gave it to him; as 
she did so, he glanced into her violet eyes, with their 
tender, pleading look. Oh, how he longed to take her 
in his arms, kiss away the look of grief, and crush down 


A WAITING HEART 


135 


the barrier the letters had raised between them, by telling 
her all. Then there arose before him Eugene^s triumph- 
ant laugh as he gave him the letter, and Estella's con- 
firmation of the engagement. He drew on his gloves and 
walked resolutely away, heedless of the disappointed look 
in her face. But as he walked home, the good ange* 
came down and stirred the depths of his heart. 

“Oh, my darling!” he murmured to himself, “I cannot 
believe that you have been untrue, cannot believe that 
your pure, open face hides deceit. This must all be 
some strange mistake, and if you are at the party to-night, 
I will know the truth from your own lips.” 

“You have got the blues again,” said Minnie to Cora, 
just after she had returned, “and have seen Grant, I 
know. Come to the party to-night — the excitement will 
make you forget your trouble.” 

“I will go.” 

“ That is right. I would not grieve for any one, no, 
not even for such a paragon as Grant.” 

“ I declare, if there is not Grant Wardleigh, and he 
has not been to a party in an nge,” whispered Minnie 
to Cora at the party that night. “I must speak to him.” 

“ Grant, what is the matter?” asked Minnie, tapping 
him on the arm with her fan. “You look as though you 
had lost your best friend.” 

“ Did my face indeed look so doleful, as to have at- 
tracted your attention, Miss Minnie?” he asked, with a 
faint attempt at a smile. 

“ Yes, and I could guess the cause. You are jealous; 
Cora is proud, and you are both silly. Come, make it all 
up,” and before Grant hardly knew it, she had led him to 
Gorans side, saying: 

“This is your place,” then she was off like a meteor 
flash. 

“ Grant had to smile in spite of himself, and lie 


1S6 


A WAITING HEART . 


offered Cora his arm, which she, with a look of surprise, 
took. 

“I am much obliged to Minnie for what she has done/' 
said Grant, “ for I came here with the determination to 
know the truth. I cannot stand it any longer. I can- 
not believe you untrue, and yet ” 

“ Good evening, Grant/' said Eugene Tracy, at his side, 
for he had been watching them, and was not going to let 
his prey be snatched away in that manner. “ I am glad 
you concluded to come. Our hostess deserves great credit 
for drawing Diogenes away from his tub; don’t you think 
so, Miss Cora?” 

She merely bowed. Eugene Tracy’s presence was un- 
welcome then. She wondered what Grant was going to 
say to her — would he explain? “ He says that he cannot 
believe I am untrue. Has any one told him that I was 
untrue? All this she pondered over as she stood there. 
“ No, no,” she thought. “ Estella cares too much for my 
happiness to injure me in any way.” 

“ Cora, there is a bust of Clytie in the library that I 
wish to show yon. It was executed by a friend of mine 
now in Italy. Grant will excuse you, I know,” said 
Eugene. 

There was nothing for her to do but to go with Eugene; 
but if Grant had glanced into her face, he would have 
seen how it displeased her. As it was, he thought she 
preferred Eugene’s society to his, and took that method to 
keep from confessing her deceit, and he walked moodily 
away, never thinking how unreasonable his thoughts 
were. Cora, after admiring the Clytie, came away, for 
she hoped Grant would finish the explanation that her 
heart was aching to know; but when she again entered 
the room, Grant had joined Estella, and during the rest 
of the evening he did not approach her. 

(< Grant came very near putting an end to our little 


A WAITING HEART, 137 

affair to-night; did you see them together?" said Eugene 
to Estella, after the party. 

“ Yes; it was Minnie's doing — I saw her bring him 
over to Cora, and was about to rush to the rescue my- 
self, when you came. You ‘don't think he told her any- 
thing? 5 ' 

“No; I did not give him time. Cora flashed her blue 
eyes at me for my pains, and I have no doubt she would 
have preferred Grant's conversation to seeing a piece of 
marble." 

“ You must be careful and not give him such another 
opportunity," said Estella. 

“ And you must make him more suspicious, or he will 
have an understanding with her in spite of us." 

“ I wonder if he really cares for her yet?" 

“I know that he does. Last week, while at the con- 
cert, when you and Cora came in, he grasped his opera- 
glass in a way that showed his feelings were aroused." 

“ If that is the case, Estella, are you not afraid you 
will never succeed in making him love you? You know 
‘ It is better to be off with the old love 
Before you are on with the new !’ ” 

“1 can wait. He cannot always cling to Cora when he 
knows he cannot marry her. He but rarely speaks of 
her, and when he does, I infer he thinks she has been 
trying to flirt with him, and you know Grant can forgive 
anything better than deceit." 

“ Well, that is rich! The idea of her flirting! Why, 
she would not say anything she did not mean, under any 
circumstances. I call her Saint Agnes, all the time." 

“Does she appear as indifferent toward you as ever?" 

“ One could hardly say that she is indifferent. She is 
very friendly, and sometimes her words make me think 
she regards me with even more than friendly interest, I 
hardly know what to think, but it is evident that she is 
very unhappy. " 


138 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Will Mr. Wardleigh call again to night ?” asked Mrs. 
Brainard of Estella, the night after the party. 

“Yes.” 

“ Won’t Eugene object to his calling so often?” 

“We understand each other,” she replied, coldly. 

“I have reason to think,” said Mrs. Brainard, looking 
at her sharply, “that you have not gotten over your pen- 
chant for Mr. Wardleigh. You are very silly, Esfcella, 
for he will never love you.” 

Estella smiled scornfully in reply, as she left the room, 
for she was as certain she would gain his love, as she was 
that she existed. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ Throb yet, oh, aching heart! 

Still pulse the flagging current without cease ; 

When you a few more hours have played your part, 1 
Comes peace.” 

“Father,” said Cora, one morning, “ lam going to 
visit Mrs. Gray.” 

“Who is Mrs. Gray?” 

“My old friend, Ida Nathan.” 

“ What made you think of going there?” asked Minnie, 
after Mr. Benoir had left the room. 

“ The letter I received from Ida this morning, and I 
am feeling so low spirited that a visit will do me good.” 

“Any one that is so proud as you are, ought to feel 
low spirited. I declare, you and Grant put me out of all 
patience.” 

“ What is the use of putting myself in a humiliating 
position for no purpose?” 

“None,” she replied, ironically. 

It was no part of Minnie’s nature to suffer long. She 
believed in the philosophy that 


A WAITING HEART. 


139 


“ For every evil under the sun 
There is a remedy, or there is none ; 

If there is one, be sure to find it, 

If there is none, never mind it.” 

No imaginary sorrow ever troubled her, and Cora’s sor- 
row was half imaginary, she knew. It was provoking to 
see her drift along in this silent grief, when perhaps a 
few words would make all right, and she grew half angry 
at Cora for hushing her whenever she attemped to speak 
about it. 

“I would not be surprised to see you silly enough to 
marry Eugene Tracy, in the end,” said Minnie. 

“Marry Eugene Tracy? never!” 

“ Then you are a flirt.” • 

“ Minnie!” said she, in an injured tone. 

“Well, does it not look like it? You encourage him 
in his visits, and yet, say you would not marry him.” 

“ He looks upon me only as a friend.” 

“Friend, nonsense! He thinks his coming will keep 
Grant away, and, in the meantime, he will have a chance 
of winning you himself.” 

“ Grant is his most intimate friend, and he would not 
wrong him. He knows it would be vain to think of win- 
ning my love, for I have told him so, long ago.” 

“ Suppose you have* As long as you let him call on 
you, he will hope.” 

“ But he has not spoken of love this season.” 

“No, he will bide his time.” 

Cora had not thought of all this before. She supposed 
he had banished all such sentiments when she rejected 
him, and even now, when she looked back over the last 
few months, she could not see that he had been the least 
lover-like. She thought he had sought her society be- 
cause it was unpleasant at his aunt’s. She had told 
Grant she cared nothing for Eugene, and bis coming 
could not keep him away. 


140 


A WAJTiya HEART* 


“ I am going to visit Mrs. Gray/* said Cora, when Eu- 
gene came that evening. 

“ Shall you stay long?** he asked. 

“ Probably all the summer.** 

“ Oh, Cora!** said he, with a disappointed look on his 
face, “ you don*t know how I shall miss you!** 

“ Of course, I shall expect you to miss me a little 
at first, but you will forget me before the season is over/* 

“ You know better, Cora/’ said he, in a tone that she 
could not mistake/* 

“Where will you spend the summer?** she asked, pre- 
tending not to have noticed what he said. 

“ I do not know,** he replied, briefly. He was angry 
to see Cora so indifferent in leaving him. 

Cora then changed the subject, and gave him no oppor- 
tunity of pressing his suit r even if he desired to. 

* * * * * * * 

“ Grant, my dear fellow, what is the matter?** asked 
Gerald Lingle, coming into his office one day, and finding 
him with his head bowed on the table. 

He raised his head with a weary look, and said: 

“Perhaps I am grieving because you are a judge, while 
I, who have plodded along so patiently, am but a poor 
lawyer/* 

“That is not it/* said Gerald. “Is it not something 
about Cora? Tell me, my friend, and let me help you.** 

“ If it were anything you could help me in, you should 
know it/* said Grant, sadly, thinking how useless it was 
to try to restore broken confidence and lost faith. False 
as he thought her, he could not help loving her. Eugene 
was so handsome, so fascinating, and Cora loved him 
once. Perhaps she had deceived herself in thinking her 
old love dead, and when she met him it revived. Thus 
he argued. “ But oh, if she had only been honest, only 
had told me the truth, I would have given her up without 
an unkind thought.** 


A WATTING HEART. 141 

u Where are your thoughts — in the clouds ?” asked 
Gerald, as Grant sat gazing out of the window at a line 
of white, fleecy mist. “ Ah, this accounts for it,” said 
he, picking up a volume of Buskin that lay on the table. 
“'Do you know that Miss Cora leaves New York to-mor- 
row?” asked Gerald, at length. 

“ No; where is she going?” 

“ To Princeton, to visit Mrs. Gray. I am going to call 
on her this evening; come, go with me.” 

No, I thank you.” 

“ As there is no prospect of getting you to consent to go 
with me, I may as well leave you,” said Gerald. 

As soon as he left the office Grant once more bowed his 
head on the table, and sat there until the daylight faded 
and the somber shadows of night gathered around him. 
Never had he felt so miserable or so alone. Bitter, in- 
deed, had been the moment when he bade farewell to the 
loved ones, as they passed away from earth, but far more 
bitter to say farewell forever to hope and happiness, to 
know that the one he had trusted, confided in, was un- 
worthy of his affections. Gerald thought him proud, 
unreasonable, he knew, but he did not know all, nor 
would he tell him. He chose to suffer alone, rather than 
by word or deed give others reason to think less of Cora. 

“ Grant, are you asleep?” asked Judge Glynn, coming 
into the office, and finding him sitting there in the dark. 
“ It is seven o'clock; time you were going to supper, my 
boy.” 

Grant took his hat and left the office, but instead of 
going to the hotel, turned his steps in the direction of the 
avenue on which Cora lived, and the policeman on his 
beat, half an hour later, saw a tall, portly figure, with 
folded arms, pace up and down before a house that was 
brilliantly lighted, for, unknown to Cora, a gay party had 
assembled there to say good-bye. Grant watched the 
figures flit through the rooms, and once noticed Cora and 


142 


A WAITING HEART. 


Eugene standing by one of the windows, as he broke a 
spray of ivy that climbed about it, and placed it in her hair. 
She smiled, and taking his arm, walked away. It was 
enough for the lonely watcher on the walk, and he 
hastened from the scene. Cora little thought that night 
of the suffering he was passing through; if she had, Grant 
would have awakened the next morning to find his fond- 
est hopes realized, for she would not have closed her eyes 
until he had known the truth. 

■“ If you get sick, or need me in any way, you must not 
fail to send for*me,” said Cora, a short time before she 
was to leave, addressing her father. 

“ You shall be notified in due time,” said he, passing 
his hand caressingly over her hair. 

While Cora was awaiting the train, a tall, muffled figure 
passed her,' and when nearing her destination, she saw, 
sitting in the cars a few seats behind her, the same per- 
son that had attracted her attention at the depot. Look- 
ing into his face, as she arose to leave the car, she recog- 
nized Grant Wardleigh. Had lie followed her as a spy, 
or because he cared for her, she wondered. 

He caught hold of her dress as she was about to pass 
out of the door, and when she looked up in surprise, lie 
held out his hand and said, “ I have come to say good-bye.'* 

“Was it necessary to come all this way to say it?” she 
asked, piqued at his strange behavior. 

“ No,” and he abruptly turned and left her. 

She repented her words as soon as'spoken, but she had 
no time to recall them, for the conductor lifted her out 
on the platform, the bell rang, and the cars rattled off. 

Grant strode back in the car, and sat down in the seat 
he had vacated. When they arrived at the next station, 
he got out; and instead of going back to New York, took 
the train for his home in Brighton. 

His parents, surprised to see him, were alarmed at his 
pale face, but to their many questions he replied: “ I am 


A waiting heart 


143 


not sick, only tired, and I thought that a few hours at 
home would do me good/" 

Old Aunt Chloe was delighted to find that Grant was 
home again, and asked why he had not brought Cora 
with him, as he had promised. 

“I did not ask her to come, Chloe, and if I had, I sup- 
pose she would have refused. 

Mrs. Wardleigh heard his reply, and thought she had 
discovered the cause of his pale face. 

"I shall leave on the noon train/" said Grant, the next 
morning. 

“So soon?"" asked she, sorrowfully. 

When leaving, he took the path that led through the 
orchard and grove— the same that Cora and he had strolled 
up and down the summer before. Each word and look 
that he recalled smote him for doubting her; and yet, 
how could he help it, after seeing the fatal letter? He 
walked on through the graveyard, and leaned over the 
iron railing that inclosed the family burying-ground. 
Sad thoughts thronged around him as he stood there, 
looking on the mounds from whence the white shafts 
pointed heavenward, for all but he had gone, and to him 
existence had ceased to be enjoyable. Then he felt that 
it was not manly to be so unnerved, and recalled to his 
mind the words of the sage who said: “Only women and 
weak-minded men mourn over disappointed love."" But 
he could not shake off this feeling of despondency where 
every object reminded him of Cora. 

Grant resolved, as he went back on the train, that he 
would try no more to have an understanding with Cora; 
he would banish her from his thoughts, and give his 
whole mind and energies to his profession. How well he 
succeeded in this resolve remains to be told, but knowing 
the effect of this estrangement, you may guess £ 


144 


A WAITING HEART . 


CHAPTER XIX. 

‘ 1 To me there eomes no happy day, 

Though only what I sowed I reap.” 

Summer had come and was nearly gone, and Cora was 
still visiting her friend. Eugene did not go to any sum- 
mer resort. He was tired of drifting here and there; 
tired of leading such an aimless life, and felt disgusted 
with himself and all the world, he said: 

“I shall not live between hopes and fears any longer, ” 
said Eugene to Estella, one day. “ I am going to see 
Cora, and know my fate." 

“ Don’t be rash." 

“ If she does not love me now she never will. As ye 
sow, even so shall ye reap/ Estella, we have sown evil; 
how can we expect to reap good?" 

“ Don’t moralize," said she, impatiently, “it is not 
your mission." 

“What is my mission?" 

“ Whatever you excel in." 

“ Wickedness. " 

“ True." 

“ But I am not contented with my mission, then; it 
has proved a burden." 

% 

“ You bear it very philosophically, if it has. When do 
you propose going to Cora?" 

“To-morrow, for 1 am in a hurry to know the truth. 
It is rumored at the club, Estella, that you are engaged 
to Grant Wardleigh. Is it so?" 

“ No; not engaged to him; but judging from his man- 
ner, I shall not be surprised to receive a proposal of mar- 
riage very soon." 

Twelve o'clock the next day found Eugene speeding 
over hill and valley, en route for Princeton. Later, it was 
with feelings of sadness that he walked up the familiar 


A WAITING HEART 


146 


streets, and saw the walls of the old college rising out of 
the trees. Ah, how things had changed sinoe he walked 
those streets a student! 

As he approached the residence of Mrs. Gray, he saw 
Cora standing among the trees, arranging a bouquet. 

She uttered a little cry, and said, in a tone that 
sounded like displeasure: “Why, Eugene, what brings 
you here?” 

“You, of course; what else could?” 

She turned away her face, and he could not see if his 
words had displeased her. After a moment's silence, she 
said: 

“Come into the house. Ida will be delighted to see 
you, for I believe she once numbered you among her best 
friends.” 

“No, I do not wish to go in until I know my fate. 
Cora, you must know that I never relinquished the hope 
that you might love me.” 

“ I thought that question had been answered, satis- 
factorily, some time ago,” she replied. 

“ But you are not engaged to Grant, now?” 

“No, yet I shall never cease loving him.” 

“Then you cannot care for me?” he asked, sadly. 

“As a dear friend — nothing more. Why not be con- 
tent?” 

“Because I love, and need yon, Cora. You could 
purify my nature, and help me lead a better life.” 

“No, I could not. That rests with you and God. Do 
not be angry, my friend. You know not how it pains 
me to refuse you; but you would not want a wife who 
could not love you. Banish me from your thoughts, if I 
can bring you nothing but sorrow,” said she, kindly. 

“ Banish you from my thoughts! Ah! that is so easily 
said, but not so easily done,” he replied, bitterly. 

“ You are not going?” asked she, laying her hand on 
his arm, as he moved away. 


146 


A WAITING HEART . 


“ Yes; why* should I Stay?” 

She did not reply. “ Remember, Eugene,” she said at 
last, “that I am your true friend. No man ever had a 
truer one, and let us part as such.” 

He merely touched the hand she extended, then walked 
hastily away. 

Cora was grieved to think she had otf ended him, and 
for the moment almost wished that she could love him. 

Eugene strode angrily to his hotel. Angry because he 
had been drawn into a plan that had resulted in no 
good to himself, and mortified because he had been re- 
jected. 

“Fool that I have been!” he exclaimed, “I might 
have known Estella only planned this to benefit herself. 
I wish that not one of her hopes may be realized, and 
that she may live to suffer — suffer as I am suffering!” he 
cried. 

He tried to hate Cora, but the pale, sweet face came 
before his mind — the face that had held naught but 
pleasant smiles and kind words for him, and he could 
not do it. 

“ She loved me once, and I trifled with her, never 
caring how my neglect might hurt her. It is but right 
that I should suffer now. What a weary life I have made 
Grant lead for a year! I will return and tell him all; let 
him hate me if he will. I shall go away then, where 
none will ever hear of me.” 

A little girl opposite his window commenced playing 
“ Home, Sweet Home.” It took him back to his youth- 
ful days. Memories of his father and mother clustered 
around him. “ Oh, would to Heaven I were a boy again! 
I would give anything to be able to retrace my steps and 
stand here as pure as that child in heart and principle.” 
He felt as if he could have wept bitter tears of grief and 
remorse for his wasted life. It is a sorrowful thing to 
stand face to face with one's own soul and know it to be 


WAITING HEART. 


147 


worthy of something so much higher and better, and yet 
find it merely a charnel-house,, filled with the dead hopes 
and high aspirations of long ago. 

At midnight Eugene was on the train homeward bound. 
Oh, that some good angel had told him to delay until 
the morning, for surely and swiftly he was going to meet 
his doom. The stars looked serenely down on the quiet 
beauty of the landscape over which the cars dashed, and 
the passengers were dozing in their seats, with no thought 
of the danger that awaited them, when suddenly there 
came a crash, the cars bounded, pitched forward, and 
amid shrieks and screams, went down, down to the bot- 
tom of a precipice, with dead, dying and wounded among 
the ruins of the train. 

“ You are seriously injured, and if you have any word 
to send to friends, better do so immediately,” said a 
physician to Eugene Tracy, when he awakened and 
found himself almost crushed to death, in a farm-house, 
near where the accident happened. 

“1 have two friends I wish to send for,” said he, faintly. 

The doctor took their address, and asked what he 
should tell them. 

“ That I cannot live, and to come to me immediately/’ 
Shall I send a minister to you?” 

Oh, the thoughts that crossed his mind as he lay there! 
The past, with all its sin, loomed up before him, making 
a hell of his heart. He would die! he shrieked aloud, 
and cursed God m his bitterness. 

“ Here is a telegram for you, Cora,” said Mrs. Gray, 
tapping on her door the next morning. 

She hastily went to the door, a vague fear possessing 
her, and her hands trembled so she could hardly tear it 
open. 

“ Oh, Ida, Eugene is dying!” she exclaimed. 

4( Why, what is the matter?” 


148 A WAITING HEART. 

“ He was going home,, and there was a collision* Hi 
has sent for me." 

“ May I ask> Cora, if he is more than a friend?" 

“ No, hut I will not deny him this last request." 

Cora did not arrive at the house where Eugene was un- 
til after Grant had. She was surprised to see him there, 
and merely bowing, she knelt down by Eugene’s bed, 
gazed upon the face that looked as if Death had already 
set his seal there, and murmured: “My poor, dear 
friend!" 

A smile passed over his face as she uttered these words. 

“ Don’t touch me!" he exclaimed, in a tone that made 
her draw back, as she attempted to take his hand. “You 
would sooner touch the vilest wretch on earth than me, 
when you know all. Grant, come here and kneel by 
Cora; I want to confess what I have done, and make all 
the atonement possible." 

Grant complied, and Eugene lay a moment with closed 
eyes, as if gathering courage to begin. 

“ Grant," said he, “ I once made Cora believe that I 
was honorable and true, and strove by every art to make 
her love me, with no other purpose than to pass away 
time, and to vex Estella and my aunt. AVhen I had 
gained it, and found that her father would soon return^ 
and that I could trifle no longer, I left her to suffer, as 
only a loving, trusting nature like hers can. After four 
years I met her again, and learned to love her, but it was 
too late — you had won what I would have given every- 
thing to have possessed. She has forgiven me all, and 
pleaded for me to be a good, true man; and I went away 
resolved to keep the promise I had given her. But while 
at my grandmother’s, the notes Cora had written to me 
years before, were placed in my hands. They tempted 
me — oh, you know not how strongly — and I yielded. I 
changed the dates, and when you came, put them in your 
way to arouse your suspicion; and succeeding in this, I 


.4 WAITING HEART 


149 


went still further, and induced you to read one, so that 
you might believe her untrue. You were jealous and 
proud; I knew you would not explain; and I have tried 
to keep you apart— poisoned your mind with hints, while 
I tried to win her love, but it was useless. Yesterday she 
again refused me, saying that she would never cease lov- 
ing you. I left Cora with my heart full of anger, for 
home, but, you see, am here." 

Cora was crying, but Grant gazed at him with a terri- 
ble look in his eyes. 

“Oh, Grant, forgive me!" said he, pleadingly: “God 
only knows what suffering it has caused me." 

But Grant did not reply, nor did the sternness pass 
from his face. • 

“ Cora," said Eugene, his dark eyes resting upon her, 
“ dare I ask you, whom I have twice injured, to forgive 
me?" 

Malice could find no place in Cora’s heart. She only 
saw before her her erring friend, whom she pitied but did 
not hate, and bending over him, she pressed a kiss of for- 
giveness on his brow. 

A smile of grateful thanks passed over his face, but 
It changed to an expression of pain as he glanced at 
Grant. 

“ f But I say unto you: Love your enemies, bless them 
that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray 
for them which despitefully use you and persecute you, 
that ye may be the children of your Father which is in 
Heaven/ " slowly repeated Cora. Then laying her hand 
softly on Grant’s arm, she said: “ Forgive him." 

He hesitated a moment, and then said: “ It has been 
a struggle, but I forgive you all." 

“'Thank God!" Eugene exclaimed, with a look of 
relief. 

“Cora, will you forgive me?" asked Grant, turning 
to her with his frank, open face, full of grief and love. 


150 


A WAITING HEART. 


She looked at him with tears glistening in her dark* 
eyes, and for an answer, rested her head upon his breast 
and wept softly. 

Eugene turned away his head, for it was torture to wit- 
ness caresses that his own heart had longed for, and he 
groaned aloud. 

“ What is it?” asked Cora, bending over him. 

“ Nothing. Send the doctor to me, and leave us alone 
awhile, please.” 

“ I will trouble you but this once, doctor. I want a 
dispatch sent to my cousin, Estella Brainard, of New 
York city. Tell her I was hurt in the accident — that 
Grant and Cora are with me and happy — and that I did 
not mention her. Tell her not to come to me, for it will 
be too late. Now, doctor, my mission on earth is ended.” 

“ If you are friends of this young man,” said the doc- 
tor, after a time, coming to the door, “you had better 
come in, for the end is very near.” 

They went in. Cora knelt at his side, as before. Grant 
and the doctor stood at the foot of the bed. He lay ap- 
parently lifeless. The doctor bent forward, laid his fin- 
ger on his pulse, and whispered that it was growing 
fainter. 

Cora gazed sorrowfully down into his face, for deeply 
as he had injured her, it filled her heart with grief to 
know tliat he was swiftly passing away. 

Eugene opened his eyes, and saw the look of compas- 
sion on her face. “ Pray for me,” said he, almost in- 
audibly. 

She sank down by his bed, and prayed, oh, so earnest- 
ly, that God would pardon him and take him to Himself. 
Then he closed his eyes, and lay like one asleep. 

That evening, when the doctor sent the telegram that 
Eugene had dictated. Grant sent another, which read: 

“ Eugene is dead; we leave here at one o'clock.” 

Estella was in the library, writing, when the dispatches 


A WAITING HEART . 


151 


were handed to lier. She glanced at them, and then ex- 
claimed like one in despair: “ Lost to me forever!” 

“ Why, Estella, what are you doing?” asked Mrs. Brain, 
ard, coming into the room. 

Estella handed her the dispatch from Grant. 

“Eugene dead! There must be some mistake. What 
is Grant Wardloigh doing there?” 

“I have another dispatch,” said Estella, tearing it into 
pieces as she spoke. “It was from Eugene. He was 
coming home; there was a collision, and he was hurt. 
He said he could not live, and for us not to come to him, 
that it would only be too late. I suppose he telegraphed 
for Grant as soon as he was hurt. My dispatch must 
have been delayed, for they both came at the same time.” 

“That is what he has got for following a wilW-the, 
wisp. He went to see Cora, I know. Well, his fortune 
is ours,” said she, feigning no sorrow for his untimely 
death. 

“ The corpse will be here some time in the morning. 
You must make all the arrangements; I will see no one/ 

Mrs. Brainard glanced at Estella in surprise. “ Had 
she loved her cousin?” But before she could read her 
face, she was gone. 

“His grandmother must be sent for,” said Mrs. Brain- 
ard, to herself, and writing a message, caused* it to be 
s ent. 

* * * * * * * 

“ If the love of the heart is blighted, it buddeth not again, 

If that pleasant song is forgotten, it is to be learnt no 
more ; 

Yet often will thought look back and weep over early 
affection ; 

And the dim notes of that pleasant song will be heard as 
a reproachful spirit, 

Moryming in JEolian strains over the desert of the heart/’ 


152 


A WAITING HEART 


Those lines came before Estella’s mind, as she sat mute 
and motionless in her room. “ The past holds nothing; 
the present nothing; the future nothing. Oh, my God, 
and I so young!" and the pent-up grief and remorse in her 
heart broke forth in great sobs. They were coming to- 
morrow; how could she meet them? How could she look 
in Cora’s innocent face, hear her kind words of sympathy, 
when she had been a traitor? How could she look upon 
the cold face of the dead, for she felt that she had been 
an instrument in bringing him to an untimely death. 
She had goaded him on until, unprincipled though he 
was, his life had become a burden. She knew full well 
but for her this sin would never have been committed, 
and now he had gone, gone with his unrepented sins to 
meet his God. 

“Estella, show that you have some sense. Cora and 
Grant have been here for some time. Why don’t you 
come down? They think it strange that you have not 
looked at your cousin,’’ said her mother, as she stood at 
the door the next morning, which Estella refused to open 
to any one. 

Estella did not reply, but after her mother had gone, 
she went quietly down-stairs. Cora and Grant were stand- 
ing by one of the windows as she entered the room, and 
when Cora saw her, she greeted her cordially, but sadly. 

She explained Eugene’s confession, that he had been 
mutually forgiven by herself and Grant, and ended by 
saying: “ We are no longer estranged.’’ Then she put her 
arms around Estella and kissed her. 

Estella tore herself almost rudely away. She could not 
be hypocrite enough to receive the caresses of one whom 
in her heart she accused of robbing her of her idol, for 
she believed he would yet have loved her. She walked 
into the room where they had laid her cousin, and looked 
down on the face that had changed so terribly since she 
last saw it. The closed eyes and mute lips sent a shaft 


.4 WAITING HEART . 


168 


of remorse to her very soul, which seemed to say: 
"‘ Wretch, look ye! it is your work!" 

Some one has said: “ How hopeless the hour when we 
hear the dirge of bright anticipation, the death-knell of 
life-long hopes, the funeral chant of love and happiness; 
when an unseen mourner we stand by the grave of yearn- 
ing desires and joyous ambition, for which the light of no 
resurrection can ever break, over whose green sod no 
sculptured monument can ever be erected, whose only 
epitaph, traced in letters of fire upon our hearts, is the 
bitter, hopeless, "It might have been/" 

Estella felt all this as she stood there and saw, through 
an opposite door, Grant, with Cora looking up fondly into 
his face. She clinched her hands, mad with jealousy, 
and once more looking down upon the dead face, she ex- 
claimed, bitterly: 

“ This one confession did not secure for you pardon. 
Why could you not leave me this one ray of happiness?" 
She looked up and saw her mother standing by her side, 
silently regarding her. 

“ Estella, are you crazy? What do you mean by such 
wild words?" 

Estella gave her a smile that she could not analyze, and 
said: “ Crazy? No, but I feel as though I could go crazy." 

""I did not know you loved your cousin so well," said 
her mother. 

She gave a low, mocking laugh. “ Love him* Yes— 
as well as I did a serpent!" and passed from the room. 

Mrs. Brainard was perplexed! She did not know what 
to make of Estella; it was so unusual for her to betray 
any emotion. 

“ Mrs. Brainard, his grandmother has come," said 
Hannah, at the door. 

“ They tell me that Eugene is dead," said she, coming 
into the room. “ Why did you not send for me before 
he died?" 


154 


A WAITING HEART, 


“We knew nothing about it until after he was dead/* 
said Mrs. Brainard. “ A terrible accident happened to 
the train he was on, and they brought him home 
dead. Oh, it is too dreadful to think about !” said she, 
raising the handkerchief to her eyes. “ Come and see 
him/* 

His grandmother was not prepared to find him so 
changed, and it quite unnerved her. She bent over him 
and cried: 

“ Oh, my poor Eugene, I did not think I should ever 
look upon your dead face! did not think you would go 
before/* and she passed her hand caressingly over his 
hair, and kissed the cold face tenderly. 

“ Are you not wearied with your journey? Let me get 
you some refreshments/’ said Mrs. Brainard. 

She stood still as if she had not even heard her, and 
murmured: “Mary’s child, the last of our race, and the 
only one in this wide world that should tie me here,” 
and with feeble steps she followed Mrs. Brainard out of 
the room. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ And hope and peace and joy are gone, 
******* 

I stand without them on the path of life. 

What is there left tome?” 

Whe^t Estella returned from the funeral, she saw there 
was only one thing to do to deceive Minnie in her belief 
that she loved Grant Wardleigh, and had been compli- 
cated in Eugene’s guilt to effect the estrangement — for 
that this was Minnie’s belief she knew r full well, from the 
sundry hints she had thrown out in her presence — and 
that one thing was to marry Mr. Claymore almost im- 
mediately, making Minnie think it had been an engage- 
ment of long standing. She would have cared but little 


A WAITING HEART. 


155 


if Minnie alone suspected this, but she was afraid Gerald 
and Grant did also, and she would make any sacrifice, 
rather than have Grant convinced of the truth concerning 
this matter. 

“Mother,” said Estella, a week after, “if you will send 
for Mr. Claymore, I will see him.” 

“And accept him?” she asked in surprise, wondering 
what had come over Estella. 

“ And accept him,” she replied coldly. 

In response to the note that ran: “ Estella has changed 
her mind, and will see you this evening,” Mr. Claymore 
came. 

Estella received him with studied politeness, and when 
his formal proposal was ended, she accepted him. No 
kiss or word of endearment sealed this betrothal, but they 
were as cold and seemingly as uninterested as though the 
contract had just been made for lands. Estella passed by 
her mother’s room, for she knew she was there waiting to 
know the result of his call, but she had no heart to speak 
of it, and going on to her own room to retire, she took 
up a bottle labeled “ Laudanum,” poured a portion of it 
ilia spoon, saying to herself as she did so: “This will 
bring oblivion for a night.” 

The next morning she comprehended what a life hers 
would be, mated to a man totally unlike her in tastes and 
feelings, but she had no disposition to recall her consent 
if she could have done so. 

Mr. Claymore, fearful lest Estella would again change 
her mind, pleaded for an early marriage. To this she 
readily complied, and in a few weeks the invitations were 
out. 

“Humph!” said Minnie to Cora, when she received 
hers, “ Estella will never marry that old man for love.” 

“ She surely will not marry him for money; for since 
Eugene died, she lias plenty of her own.” 

“No; but she loves Grant Wardleigh, and will marry 


A WAITING HEART 


m 

Mr. Claymore to keep people from knowing that she is 
disappointed." 

“What nonsense! Minnie," said Cora, yet she could 
not help thinking Estella had acted very strangely. And 
then what Eugene had said just before he died, came 
into her mind — that her old notes had been placed in his 
hands to tempt him. Could it have been Estella that 
had done it? and if so, what had been her motive? It 
was an enigma that she could not solve. 

“ I would really like to know, Cora, if you are really 
sorry that Eugene is dead?" said Minnie, presently. 

“ He wronged me, Minnie, I know, hut he also loved 
me, which made him more easily led into temptation. 
The grave has covered his faults, and I have forgiven him 
all. I am truly sorry that one so young, so capable of 
making a good, noble man has gone so soon." 

“Estella has been so cold and silent ever since." 

“We cannot wonder at it, knowing what a shock his 
death must have been to her." 

“ She never told you that she intended to marry Mr. 
Claymore?" 

“No, I have not been alone with her since Eugene 
died, and then Estella rarely speaks of anything concern- 
ing herself ; but she and I are too old friends to stand on 
etiquette, and I shall go to see her this evening." 

Cora found Estella seated in an easy chair, her head 
resting on her hand, and an unhappy look on her face. 

“ What is the matter, Estella?" asked Cora, sitting 
down by her side. 

“ Nothing, only I feel tired. Mother and I have been 
out shopping to-day," she replied, wearily. 

“ And you have been engaged this long while, and 
never told your best friend," said Cora, reproachfully. 

“ My dear Cora, I told no one, not even my mother. 
You received my cards?" 

“Yes." 


A WAITING HEART. 


157 


“ I shall be married at home, and then visit several 
points of interest in New England. When are you and 
Minnie going to wed?” 

“ The first of October.” 

Cora did not stay long with Estella, for she seemed 
so constrained in her presence that it was a relief to get 
away. 

It was a wedding like most other weddings. Lights 
flashed and gay music resounded through the lofty rooms. 
Estella, standing there in the presence of all, promised to 
love, honor and obey the man by her side. Oh, how her 
whole soul recoiled from' the falseness of her vows! Was 
it a wonder that she almost swallowed a curse as she felt 
the chains of her bondage sink deeper into her soul, 
though outwardly she gave no sign of her suffering?' 
The bridegroom, with a triumphant light in his gray 
eyes, received their congratulations with a radiant face, 
for although he did not love her, nor had made any pre- 
tensions that he did, yet he was very proud that he had 
such a beautiful wife. The bride was cold, almost 
haughty, some thought, and received all with calm in- 
difference. 

“ Doesn't she act strangely?” whispered Minnie to 
Gerald. “ She seems like a spirit — and look at her dress, 
not a spray of flowers nor an ornament, only that great 
diamond blazing on her hand.” 

“ What change has come over Estella?” asked Minnie, 
as she stood among a bevy of girls that were putting on 
their wrappings in the cloak-room. 

“ I don't know; she ^s strangely quiet. Perhaps she 
regrets the step she has taken.” 

“ Well, I do say she is a goose for marrying such an 
old man, when she could have married any gentleman in 
our set,” said another. 

“I don't believe she could,” said Minnie, dryly. 


158 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ Oil, I did not think of the judge when I spoke,” said 
the other, laughing. 

“ Was she not engaged to her cousin, at one time?” 

“ Yes; her mother said so.” 

“Poor, dear fellow! how handsome he was — and to 
meet with such a shocking death! I don't think she 
cared very much for him, to marry so soon.” 

“ Come, Minnie,” said Cora, who had been a silent 
listener, wrapping her white cloak about her, “father is 
waiting for us.” 

The guests had all departed. The flowers were droop- 
ing in their vases, the elegant mansion closed, and the 
inmates sleeping as quietly as though no unusual event 
had disturbed the routine of every-day life. All were at 
rest save one. She who should have been dizzy with 
bliss, was passing through a thousand tortures in the 
secret depths of her aching heart. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“ Though each young flower had died, 

There was the root— strong living not the less 
That all it yielded now was bitterness.” 

A woman less firm, less determined, might have borne 
to see her hopes swept away with less struggle than Es- 
tella. With all her power she had striven to hide her 
feelings, but now, as she was married, the tension of her 
feelings gave way, and she returned home, only to be 
stricken down by the brain fever. Mr. Claymore, with all 
his pompousness, felt his heart warm toward his beauti- 
ful wife, as she lay there as helpless as a babe, her fair 
cheeks rouged with fever, and the great hazel eyes wan- 
dering about the room in a dreamy sort of way. He ex- 
perienced something akin to sorrow when the physician 
drew him aside, and told him he was afraid she could not 
recover. 

“Is there really no hope?” he asked. 


A WAITING HEART. 


159 


“ If she is not better by midnight, she cannot, possibly 
live." 

He turned away, and sat down by her bedside, keeping 
a silent watch until after the crisis had passed, and when 
the doctor said: “ She will live,” he bent over, and press- 
ed his first kiss on her brow. 

When Estella awoke to consciousness, and saw her 
mother, her husband, and the physician standing around 
her bed, she comprehended all in a moment, and looking 
up into the doctor's face, a mournful look in her eyes, 
she said in a voice that evinced nothing but utte? 
despair: 

“ Oh, why did you not let me die?” 

The doctor looked at her in surprise. “ Let you die, 
dearlady! That is a strange question, truly. You ought 
to be thankful that your life is spared.” 

“ Thankful for what — that I am spared to lead a hope- 
less, aimless life?” she asked bitterly. 

“ Yours cannot be a hopeless, aimless life, for you have 
friends and a husband that love you, and you should be 
happy.” 

“What a mockery! I shall never be happy,” said she, 
drearily, thinking of the past. 

The doctor could not comprehend her meaning, but 
her mother knew the cause of all her suffering; for in 
Estella’s incoherent ravings she had again and again 
called aloud for Grant, and her mother both pitied and 
scorned her for her weakness. Mr. Claymore knew noth- 
ing about this, and Mrs. Bfainard wisely refrained from 
telling him. Estella recovered slowly, for she had none 
of the vigor that hope always brings. No one could have 
been more considerate of her wants than her husband, 
and any one less cold than Estella could not have helped 
feeling kindly toward him, but she accepted all with 
calm indifference. Cora was a constant visitor at the 
hous§ during her illness^ and when she had fully recov- 


160 


A WAITING HEART 


ered, she came, bringing Grant with her. At the sight 
of his face, the old love revived again as warmly as ever, 
and the knowledge that she was married put no restraint 
upon her feelings. She felt that to see him stay there 
and see him marry Cora would be enough to make her go 
mad. That night she said to her husband, with some- 
thing like tenderness in her voice: 

“Please take me away from here; l am so tired of the ' 
city” 

“ Where do you want to go?” he asked. 

“Any place, so it is near the sea.” 

“Shall we go to S ?” 

“Yes, it will suit as well as any other.” 

Once at S , she threw herself into the very vortex 

of fashionable dissipation, spending night after night in 
the ball-room, until her cheeks began to pale again, and 
her step to become slow. Her husband remonstrated with 
her, but she answered him back with scorn almost demo- 
niacal: “ She cared not for any one.” She had only one 
aim, and that was to bury her past. But do as she would, 
Eugene’s face as it lay in the coffin haunted her day and 
night, and her guilty conscience slept no more. People 
who saw her expressed but one opinion — that she was 
“ chaste as an icicle, and every whit as cold.” She rarely 
smiled, and when she did, it was but a mockery of a smile. 
Her husband at last seldom objected to anything she 
did, for he knew the diamonds glittering on her breast 
were no colder nor more dead than her heart. 

The beach was her favorite resort, for she felt there 
was something in the wild waves and seething foam akin 
to her nature. 

“Here is a letter from your mother,” said her husband 
one evening, as he found her sitting there in the shadow 
of the rocks. 

“ Thank you,” said she, taking the letter from him. 


A WAITING HEART . 161 

and tossing it over into the sea without breaking the 
seal. 

He looked at her in astonishment. 

‘ ‘ 1 do not wish to read anything from her pen,” she said 
in answer to his look. She knew full well the letter con- 
tained’ the particulars of Cora’s marriage that would take 
place in a few days, and she had no desire to hear it. 
While sitting there with the sea at her feet, the letter 
called up these lines of Tennyson, and made her feel their 
truth: 

“ Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea; 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me/’ 

* * * * * * * 

“ But because this human love, though true and sweet, 
Yours and mine, 

Has been sent by Love more tender, more complete, 
More divine, 

That it leads our hearts at last to rest in Heaven, 

Far above you, 

Do I take thee as a gift that God has given, 

. And I love you !” 

Mendelssohn’s wedding march rang out loud and clear, 
and in all the splendor of white satin and orange blos- 
soms, Grant and Cora, Minnie and Gerald were married. 
As well pleased as Mr. Benoir was with Cora’s choice, it 
was with almost a breaking heart that he gave her away, 
for she had grown inexpressibly dear to him during the 
years that he had been alone. They spent a few days at 
Grant’s old home, and Aunt Chloe went half wild with 
delight, for she said she knew Grant had nearly grieved 
himself to death about Miss Cora. Then they crossed the 
ocean for a European tour. 

As the steamer was sailing up the Mersey, Minnie, who 
was standing by Cora’s side, looking away to the city of 
Liverpool in view, said: “ Is it not strange?” 


102 


A WAITING HEART. 


“What strange, Minnie?” 

“Why, that after all your sorrow and misunderstand- 
ing, you have glided into a haven at last.” 

“Yes, but should we live for all eternity, we can never 
make up for what we have lost.” 

Grant pressed the hand that lay in his, as he heard her 
words, but said nothing. What his thoughts were, only 
those who have passed through the same experience can 
tell. 

“Estella, is it not time we were leaving here?” said her 
husband, coming into the room one day where he found 
her lying on a couch, the old hopeless look on her face. 

,“Yes; I am ready whenever you are.” 

She had prolonged her stay until this late so as to avoid 
being present at Cora's marriage, but now that she and 
Grant had gone, she felt that New York would be no 

more of a desert than S , and she went back to do the 

honors of her stately mansion. 

Oh, how she hated, loathed every one and everything 
about it. Life was to her a burden. She felt too 
wretched to live, too wicked to die. Men praised her 
rare beauty, and women were envious, and sighed when 
they thought of the grand panoply of fashion and wealth 
which surrounded her, but ah! if they had looked into 
her heart, they would have found it empty. 

Mr. Claymore knew that in marrying Estella he had 
committed the greatest mistake of his life, for her will 
could not be crossed in anything. Matrimonial bliss had 
proved to' be but a tread-mill to him. 

Six months passed by, and then the bridal party re- 
turned to New York. Mr. Benoir said he was not will- 
ing to part with any of them, but Minnie declared she 
was aching to keep house, so the residence opposite was 
bought and furnished, then they settled down in perfect 
harmony and contentment. 

******* 


A WAITING HEART 


lte 

Estella’s conscience, which had awakened, slept no 
more, and as the days passed on, bringing with them their 
painful memories, she grew constantly more and more 
uneasy, and when the spring came, she too left the New 
World for the Old, hoping to forget all amid new scenes 
and associations. But go where she would, whether 
wending her way along the banks of the beautiful Khine, 
or threading the mountain passes, or wandering among 
the wild glens and valleys of Switzerland, the old, rest- 
less longing was never quenched. She had sought peace, 
but there was no peace. She wondered, as she stood on 
a balcony in Florence, looking out on the soft, dreamy 
landscape, bathed in the golden rays of the sunlight, if 
this was the country she longed to see in her girlhood. 
She remembered the time when this very scene . would 
have made her grow dizzy with delight, but now she ex- 
perienced nothing but utter indifference. Oh, how that 
first wrong step had changed her whole course! But for 
that, she might have been leading an untroubled, if not 
a happy life, and Eugene have become a noble, useful 
man. 

It is to be hoped that in her wanderings Estella may 
find the only antidote to the poison that is eating out her 
very heart, and that is, faith and trust in the God she 
has neglected all these long — long years. 

[the ekd.] 



\ 


i 


164 


a Waiting heart. 


A GIRL’S FOLLY. 


A small, superior cottage of bright-red brick, sweet- 
scented woodbine trailing oyer its rustic porch, a green 
lawn before it surrounded by flowers, and a charming 
country landscape spreading out in the distance. Inside, 
in its small but very pretty parlor, on the red table-coyer 
waited the tea-tray, with its cups and saucers. The win- 
dow stood open to the still, warm autumn air, and the 
French porcelain clock on the mantel-piece was striking 
five. 

A slender girl of some twenty years came in. She was 
very lovely, but her bright-blue eyes bore a sort of weary, 
or discontented look, and her bright brown hair was 
somewhat ruffled. She wore a print washing dress of 
black and white, neither very smooth nor very fresh, and 
a lace neck-collar, fastened with a bow of black ribbon. 
Glancing round the room, and seeing nobody in it, she 
went to the open window, stood there in a deep reverie, 
and then leaned out to pick a rose. Its thorns pricked 
her delicate fingers, and she let it fall with a pettish ex- 
clamation. 

Mrs. Reece came in next. A middle-aged, faded woman 
of care, in a small widow’s cap and neat black gown. She 
looked flushed and fatigued. 

“Have you made tea, Alison?” 

“No, mamma.” 

“Oh, you might have made it? I wish you would, 
child! I am very tired.” 

Alison turned from the window, brought the tea-caddy 
from a side-table, and put two caddy-spoonfuls of tea into 


A WATTING HEART . 


165 


the metal teapot. Then she carried it out to the boiling 
water in the kitchen, and brought it in filled. On days 
dedicated to some special household work, the young 
servant had to be spared as much as possible. This was 
ironing-day, and Mrs. Reece had stood at the board her- 
self, ironing what they called the fine things, which 
meant laces and muslins, and helping generally. She 
was not strong, and a little work tired her. But she sat 
down to pour out the tea as usual, Alison taking a seat 
which faced the window. 

“ Why have you not changed your frock this after- 
noon?” exclaimed Mrs. Reece, suddenly noticing that her 
daughter wore the cotton frock that she had put on in the 
morning. And it may as well be stated that at that 
time, many years ago now, the dresses worn by young 
ladies, whether cotton or silk, were universally called 
“ frocks.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” carelessly replied Alison. “ It 
does not matter.” 

“Did you forget that Thomas Watkyn was coming?” 

“Not at all,” said Alison, in a slightly contemptuous 
tone, her fair face flushing rosy red, and her blue eyes 
roving outward to the distant green meadows, to the 
sheaves of the golden corn, and the already changing 
tints of the foliage. “I’m sure the frock is good enough 
for Thomas Watkyn! And I don’t see why he need be 
dancing to our house so often, mamma.” 

“Alison, be silent. You are behaving ill, and you 
know it.” 

“Iam very sorry you should think so, mother. I do 
not wish to behave ill to you.” 

“That is behaving ill — saying those last words; be- 
cause you know well that I did not mean you were be- 
having ill to me, but to Thomas Watkyn.” 

Alison Reece pouted her cherry lips, and ate a whole 
slice of thin bread and butter before replying. 


166 


A WAITING HEART . 


“ Mamma, how particular you are!” 

“ I never thought you could behave so. Six months 
ago, you would not have believed it yourself.” 

“ Would you please let me have a little more milk in 
my tea?” 

“ You treat Thomas Watkyn outrageously,” continued 
Mrs. Reece, as she passed the milk jug. “ One day you 
smile on him, draw him on— yes, you do, Alison; don’t 
interrupt me — and the next day you will hardly speak to 
him a pleasant word. But he is worth more than that 
other; that foolish Vavasour, with whom you have been 
flirting lately.” 

“ Worth more!” retorted Alison, resenting these charges, 
which she knew were all true, and having no other answer 
at hand . 

“Yes; infinitely more. Compare a dandy fop like 
Vavasour with Thomas Watkyn! Alison, you must alter 
your behavior. You are engaged to young Watkyn, 
and ” 

“ There was no engagement,” interrupted Alison. 

“ It is equivalent to one. He comes here openly to 
court you; you have, until lately, responded to it. Why! 
don’t you see that he worships the very ground you tread 
on?” 

A pretty blush and a conscious smile illumined the 
girl’s face. 

“I say things must not go on as they are going,” 
repeated Mrs. Reece. “ Either tell Thomas that you 
cannot marry him, and beg him not to come here; or else 
make up your mind to do so, and cease your silly flirta- 
tion with the other.” 

“ It is not a silly flirtation,” angrily replied Alison. 

“Indeed I see not what else it can be.” 

“I don’t flirt; he does not flirt. He calls here some- 
times, and we talk a little; and — and — I’m sure there’s 
nothing in that to make a fuss about,” 


A WAITING HEART 


167 


“ And how often do you meet him when yon are out? 
and how often do I see him strolling with you about yonder 
fields? Alison, take care that in trying to grasp the 
shadow you do not lose the substance.” 

“ What substance?” asked the young lady innocently. 

“Thomas Watkyn. A union with him would be a 
very substantial one indeed; a thoroughly good settlement 
in life for you. Mr. Vavasour at best (looking at him in 
this light) is but a shadow. These aristocratic flirting 
fops rarely have marriage in their heads. The amusement 
of the moment; the talking sentimental nonsense with a 
silly girl: that is all they look after. Will you take an- 
other cup of tea?” 

“ Oh no, thank you. This lecture is as good as ten 
cups of tea.” 

“ Then ring the bell.” 

Patty, the young servant, came in and carried away 
the tea-tray. Mrs. Eeece went up-stairs to put away the 
clothes ironed that day, and Miss Eeece went back to the 
open window, leaned against its side-frame, and fell into 
a reverie. 

She had a pretty good notion herself that matters 
would not go on much longer; Thomas Watkyn would 
not let them. More than once he had said to her a few 
words; and she had laughed them off. He was a fine 
man, and a good man, and a well-educated man for those 
days; but he was a farmer. Alison had thought herself 
fortunate that he should choose her, for she was not of 
much account in the world, and could say with the milk- 
maid in the old song, My face is my fortune: and if she 
was not desperately in love with him, she liked him very 
much, esteemed and respected him. 

But a stranger made his appearance in the place, one 
Eeginald Vavasour, who had come to read with the clergy- 
man, previous to passing some examination. A high- 
bred man of good family, there could be no doubt of 


A WAITING HEART . 


168 

that, and a man of fascinating manners, given to take 
the female heart by storm. He had accidentally made 
the acquaintance of pretty Alison Eeece, had talked a 
great deal of lazy nonsense to her for his own amusement, 
just to pass the time away during the intervals of his at- 
tendance in the Reverend Mr. Tarbey’s study; and Alison 
was supremely fascinated. Beside that slender young- 
aristocrat, whose clothes were of perfect cut, and whose 
easy manners (not to say insolent) were as perfect as his 
clothes, whose very drawl betrayed his conscious superior- 
ity to men of the rustic locality, no matter what their 
standing might be, what could plain, unpretending 
Thomas Watkyn be in Alison’s sight? Nobody. 

Yet he was good-looking in his way, this Thomas 
Watkyn. A well-grown, well-made, fine man, beside 
whom the other looked like a boy, with a calm, sensible 
face, and quiet, unobtrusive ways. But again — who 
could admire a homely face, its steady, thoughtful, 
kindly eyes, and its brown, old-fashioned whiskers, when 
there was another face over the next field, whose dark 
orbs were of a flashing brilliance, and whose curled-out 
black mustache was killing? Not silly, inexperienced, 
vain Alison Reece. 

Leaning against the window-frame, Alison watched a 
tall straight figure coming across the meadows, and her 
brow went into a scowl. It was Thomas Watkyn: and 
she wondered what brought him so early this evening; 
she wished he would stay away for good. Or, if not for 
good — for something pricked her heart and conscience 
there — at least for a few weeks. She did care for 
Tom, and she knew it, and she supposed she should marry 
him some time. Unless indeed — sometimes Alison dreamed 
dreams of Mr. Vavasour appearing some fine morning to 
carry her off in a carriage and four, the horses and post- 
boys displaying white favors. She had no true love for 
Mr. Vavasour; but she was very pretty, with all a pretty 


A WAITING HEART. 


109 


girl's vanity, and his admiration of her was just so much 
subtle incense. 

A thought of vexation crossed her mind, as Mr. Watkyn 
came in at the gate, that she had not changed her frock 
as usual. Some kind of perverse obstinacy had caused 
her not to do it, because she knew that he would be there 
that evening and that Mr. Vavasour would not. She 
walked out to the rustic porch awaiting his approach: and 
she grew more vexed still as she saw his keen, honest gray 
eyes scanning the untidy dress in mute surprise. 

“ Good-evening, Alison." 

“ Good-evening," she replied, meeting his offered hand. 
“ You are come early." 

“ I must leave early. I have but a few minutes to give 
you.” 

“It was scarcely necessary to come at all, was it?" 

“ I knew you would be expecting me." 

“ Oh, not particularly!" replied Miss Alison, tossing her 
curls back to express indifference. 

“ But I will come to-morrow, Alison, about this hour. 
I want to have some conversation with you, and " 

“To lecture me, pray?" 

“ No; that is over. However, I will not enter upon it 
now. My uncle came in this afternoon from Barceter, 
and as he leaves us again early to-morrow, I must not be 
away long this evening." 

“ Your father is at home, I suppose?" 

“ Oh, yes." 

“You were not here yesterday evening?" 

“ I stayed away purposely. Would you have cared to 
see me had I come?" 

“ I can't say whether I should or not. You have not 
been very pleasant with me of late, Tom." 

“Not as I once was, perhaps; how can I be? But I do 
not think I have made myself unpleasant." 


170 


A WAITING HEART. 


“ We never liardly get a laugh from you. You have 
grown graver than a judge.” 

“ Have I not had cause?” 

“ Cause!” she lightly repeated. “ What cause?” 

“ Alison, this pretense of indifference does not become 
you. I say that I do not care to enter upon matters now. 
If I did, I might recall the doings of only the last two 
days to your memory, and ask you whether they have or 
have not held cause.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Take Sunday. In the morning you scarcely looked 
at me as we came out of church; in the afternoon, when 
I would have joined you and walked home with you, you 
threw me over with supreme scorn and went away side by 
side with Vavasour. And in the evening you were pac- 
ing the meadows with him.” 

“ It was no harm. He was not eating me.” 

Take yesterday,” continued Mr. Watkyn, his face, 
his gentle voice full of the deepest pain. “ He had holi- 
day, it must be supposed, from his studies, and he and 
you were roaming about together nearly the whole of the 
live-long day.” 

“ And he came in and took a cup of tea with me and 
my mother afterward,” answered Alison, with saucy, 
laughing insolence. “ Mamma thinks him charming.” 

“ He is an idle, heartless ” 

“ Well, why do you stop?” 

“ I was going to say — vagabond. And in one sense 
he is.” 

“He comes of a race who can afford to be idle. He 
does not have to till the ground by the sweat of his brow. 
He was born with his bread-and-cheese provided for him.” 

“ With a silver spoon in his mouth,” added Mr. Wat- 
kyn, affecting a lightness he did not feel, for her con- 
temptuous tone tried him. “ Well, good-evening, Alison.” 

“ Oh, good-evening, if you are going.” 


A WAITING HEART 


171 


He stood looking at her,, and their e}'es met. Alison 
caught the shadow of pain in his,, and in her own there 
arose a remorseful pity: she had the grace to feel ashamed 
of herself. Her lips broke into a tender smile; a pink 
flush shone in her dimpled cheeks. 

“You are very silly, Thomas / 5 

“Am I?” he returned, holding her hand lovingly in 
his. “Fare you well until, to-morrow evening, my 
dearest . 55 

“There! Your dearest! And just now you were ready 
to call me hard names !’ 5 

“Until to-morrow , 55 he repeated with a smile, as he 
quitted her. 

Alison got a perfumed note the next morning from Mr. 
Vavasour: gilt-edged paper, crest on the seal. It told her 
that he was to be so “gloriously busy 55 that day, he 
feared he should not have time to call at the cottage; but 
would she meet him at the willow walk at dusk. And 
it ended: “Your faithful Reginald Vavasour . 55 

The vain expectations of Miss Alison Reece bubbled up 
aloft.; her face and heart were alike in a glow. “Your 
faithful Reginald Vavasour ! 55 she repeated to herself. “ It 
must mean that he intends to be faithful to me for life. 
And what a grand, beautiful name Reginald Vavasour is! 
Compare it with the mean old commonplace one, Tom 
Watkyn ! 55 

Tea was over, and Alison, all in readiness for the inter- 
view with Mr. Watkyn, was steeling her heart against it 
and against him who was coming to hold it with her. She 
had changed her frock to-day, and wore a fresh, bright 
colored muslin, blue ribbons at the neck and wrists, and 
a blue knot in her hair. 

She waited impatiently; she wanted the interview over 
and done with, that she might be off to keep that other 
with Mr. Vavasour. But Thomas was late. 

Pacing the garden-path in the rays of the fading sun. 


173 


A WAITING HEART. 


she stood looking over the little iron entrance gate, her 
blue eyes roving hither and thither in search of one whom 
she could not see. Unconsciously she broke out into the 
verse of a homely song. 

“ Oh deal’, what can the matter be, 

Dear, dear, what can the matter be, 

Oh dear, what can the matter be, 

Johnny’s so long at the fair! 

He promised to buy me a bunch of sweet posies, 

A bunch of green mosses, a bunch of pink roses, 

He promised to bring me a knot of blue ribbons 
To tie up my bonny brown hair.” 

The hum of the last words was dying away on the air 
when the well-known form of Thomas Watkyn came into 
view. He wore his usual dark-blue evening frock coat 
and quiet waistcoat; he dressed well always when his day’s 
work was over, but not in the fashionable attire c t 
fashionable Mr. Vavasour. 

“Good-evening, Alison,” he said, as he reached the 
gate. “ What a lovely evening it is!” 

Removing his hat, he gazed up at the sapphire sky, 
action and countenance alike full of reverence: and Ali- 
son, who had not been taking any particular notice be- 
fore, looked around her, her face softening at the splendor 
of nature’s glory. 

“What a glorious sunset!” he continued, his voice tak- 
ing a hushed tone. “ Glorious, glorious!” 

“How solemnly you speak, Thomas!” 

“ I am feeling solemn. I have been feeling so ever unce 
I came out; but I don’t know why. Unless it is that 
heavenly scene that’s making me so.” 

“ It is very grand,” she said, fixing her eyes on the bank 
of golden clouds in the western sky, where the sun was 
just slipping down behind the purple hill-tops in the dis- 
tance, like a ball of ruby flame. Tiny bits of foam-like 
clouds flecked the limpid blue of the heavens, a warm, 
golden glow gilded the earth, freshened and vivified with 


A WAITING HEART . M 

a past shower. The musical twitter of birds going to their 
rest filled the woodlands; and, as Alison looked, a strange 
feeling of awe stole into her heart, for the glory that lay 
around seemed more than earthly. 

“ There are moments,” he said, in a dreamy manner, 
“ when I fancy these sunsets must be given to us as a 
faint reflex — though, I suppose, that’s the wrong word — of 
what we shall find in heaven; given to us by God to turn 
our thoughts and hopes toward it. Oh, Alison! it is 
more than beautiful!” 

The ruby flame was changing to a soft and brilliant 
rose-color, inexpressibly lovely. It was indeed a rather 
remarkable sunset; one not often vouchsafed to human 
eye. 

“ You make quite sure of going to Heaven, Tom!” she 
exclaimed, in a flippant tone. For she wanted to ward 
off all serious conversation, lest he should begin to lect- 
ure. 

Thomas Watkyn turned his eyes upon her, surprise, if 
not reproof, in their depths. “ I hope I am,” he answer- 
ed, “ under God.” 

“ Young people do not often think of these things.” 

“ The -young die as well as the old, child; remember 
that.” 

“Won't you come in, Thomas?” she asked, in a soft- 
ened voice, as they presently strolled up the path, and he 
halted in the porch. 

“Not this evening, Alison. What I have to say I will 
say here.” 

Alison flushed to the roots of her wavy hair, and moved 
a step or two away from him. 

“ Look!” she cried, pointing to the blazing western sky* 
“that bank of golden clouds is changing to crimson 
now.” 

He bent forward, for he had already sat down, and 
looked again at the gorgeous panorama, 


174 


A WAITING HEART. 


“Yes, it is, as I say, a glorious sunset. We may never 
see another like it on this side of eternity," he added, 
dreamily, seeming to lose himself in solemn thoughts. 

Alison laughed — her little musical laugh that had 
often set his pulses beating wildly. “ You are always 
looking at the dark side of things, Tom. *1 hope we 
shall yet watch many a sunset together." 

“Do you really, Alison?" 

“Why, of course we must see the sunsets if we live," 
she returned, in a hard, matter-of-fact tone. “As 'we 
are neighbors, we may likely see some of them in com- 
pany." 

“ That was all, was it? Sit down, Alison." 

“I prefer to stand." 

Nevertheless, Mr. Watkyn drew her somewhat per- 
emptorily to his side and made her sit down on the 
bench. “What I want to say to you, Alison, is about 
yoiing Vavasour." 

“ Oh, indeed!" she retorted. 

“ I do not like to see you make yourself a simpleton 
with that man; I will not see it; for, if you continue to 
do it, I shall say farewell to you, and not trouble this 
side of our grounds again." 

Alison’s face turned white; a habit it had when she was 
startled or very angry; and the remaining softness faded 
out of her heart, just as the golden glow was beginning 
to fade out of the western sky. 

“Simpleton! — do you call me? Thank you." 

“It is nothing less," he returned. “A short while, 
and this man will be leaving the place forever; leaving 
you. You will feel vexed then, Alison, at having made 
your intimacy with him so conspicuous." 

“ He will not be leaving," she retorted. “ When he 
does leave, it will only be to come back again." 

Her companion shook his head. “No, that is not 
likely. Yesterday Mr. Tarbey called at the farm: in talk- 


A WAITING HEART 


175 


ing with my father, he mentioned incidentally that young 
Vavasour was only to be with him this one term. The 
fellow may not have anything especially bad in him; I 
should not wish to imply that; but he is idle and heart- 
less, and, in pretending to make love to you, Alison, he 
is but amusing himself and fooling you/' 

“ How dare you say he is making love to me?” 

“ I say he is pretending to do it. Alison, you must 
know it to be so — if you would but speak the candid 
truth.” 

“ Very well, then! Pray, what if he is?” 

“Only this: That you cannot continue to listen to nim 
and keep me in your train. It must be one or the other 
of us, Alison, from this night. You must choose between 
us.” 

“Then I choose him,” she said, wrathfully rising. 

“ Do you mean it?” asked Mr. Watkyn, rising in his 
turn. 

The girl did not answer. Her chest was heaving with 
agitation; Thomas Watkyn’s gray eyes took a tender 
light as they gazed at the pretty, changing, uncertain 
face. 

“ Alison,” he said, and his voice was wonderfully con- 
siderate, “I have known you from childhood; I have 
loved you all your life. Twelve months ago there arose 
an understanding between us that you would be my wife; 
until recently I never supposed that you could have any 
other thought. But you have filled my breast with cruel 
fears; tortured it, my dear; and I cannot bear them 
longer. You must be to me what you used to be, or give 
me up.” 

Alison’s eyes grew sullen. Why could not this Tom 
Watkyn let her alone? She did not altogether want to 
break with him. What harm was she doing in talking 
to Reginald Vavasour? Reginald was ten times the 


in 


A WAITim HEAR?. 


gentleman that he was! — and his voice had a sweet, soft 
lisp! — and he wore a diamond ring on his white hand! 

“Oh, my dear — my best and dearest — give up this 
folly! Let things be with us as they used to be! Don’t 
you care for me?” 

“No,” she replied to him, in her cross and contrary 
spirit; conscious all the while of a latent wish that Mr. 
Vavasour had been buried in the sea before coming to 
disturb the peace. “ No /” 

“Then you decline to marry me, Alison? You nave 
not loved me as I love you ?” 

The sad, passionate fervor nearly scared her breath 
away; the heartfelt sorrow, all too plain, touched her 
with a qualm. But she was in an obstinate mood. 

“Mr. Vavasour does not hurt you. I wonder you 
should concern yourself with him !” 

“No trifling,” sternly spoke Thomas Watkyn. “ I tell 
you it must be him or me.” 

She would not answer. 

“Will you give him up, Alison, from this night?” he 
pleaded. 

“No.” What inward spirit of evil prompted her to 
speak that short, sullen word, Alison never knew. But 
it was spoken. 

“Very well.” 

For long afterward, the pain and pathos in those two 
short words haunted her like a wail from the grave. 
Thomas stood before her, calm and self-possessed. 

“ I will never trouble you again, Alison,” he said, 
quietly “Will you kiss me once— ere we say farewell 
forever?” 

She felt awed at the sternness, the reality that was steal- 
ing upon their interview, and trembled at the thought of 
losing him. But she did not believe it would come to 
that in the end, and she was too proud and willful to take 
back her answer unsolicited. 


A WAITING HEART 177 

With a playful air^half saucy, half defiant, she shyly 
held up her slightly red lips, while he kissed her with a 
long, lingering kiss, such as we give the dead. 

“ Good-bye,” he said, huskily. He strode away, leav- 
ing her standing in the glow of the sunset, a wild, scared 
look on her young face. 

“ He will turn back,” she whispered to herself. “ Surely 
— surely! — for I could not bear to lose him.” But Mr. 
Watkyn went straight- on to the gate. 

“ Thomas!” she called out. “ Thomas!” 

He turned then. “ What is it?” he asked. 

perhaps she had it in her mind to humble herself to 
him — who knows? She did nothing of the kind. A mo- 
ment's pause, possibly of indecision; and then she pro- 
duced a note from within the folds of her frock. 

“ May I ask you to do me a little favor, Thomas — for 
the last time?” 

“ What is it?” he repeated. 

“If you would not very much mind going home by the 
hill, and would leave this note at Miss Ford's. I par- 
ticularly wish her to have it this evening.” 

He paused for an instant, not replying. She went on 
hurriedly. 

“I see that it is disagreeable to you. I have otfended 
you too much.” 

“Not that,” he answered, holding out his hand for the 
note. “ But I can hardly spare the time for the long 
way this evening, as I have to call at Killick's for my 

father. However ” he said no more, but took the 

note. 

“ Good-bye, Thomas.” 

“ Good-bye for aye. God be with you!” 

“What a solemn mood he is in, the stupid fellow!” 
commented she. “But I am glad he took the note! I 
shall be safe now.” 

Miss Alison Reece was a clever young lady. The 


m A WAITING HEART, 

direct and near way to Mr. Watkyn’s home would lead 
him past the willow walk. She had devised this im- 
promptu note to her dressmaker in the afternoon to pre- 
vent his taking that usual route. Had he seen young 
Vavasour cooling his heels within the precincts of the 
willow walk he would inevitably suspect he was waiting 
to keep a lover’s tryst. 

Alison leaned over the gate and watched him as he 
walked away, watched him take the lane that led to the 
route she had wished, and disappear. She stood there 
until the gold in the clouds had changed to crimson, the 
crimson to purple, that spread itself like a royal mantle 
over the western hills. White mists began to settle on 
the brooks that but a moment ago had reflected the 
gorgeous rays of the setting sun. Somehow it seemed to 
make her shiver, and she crept up to her own room with 
a strange sense of loss at her heart. 

Mrs. Eeece had gone out after tea to sit with a sick 
neighbor, and Alison devoutly hoped she would not be 
coming home yet, or there might be a difficulty in getting 
away to keep her appointment. It was nearly time to be 
starting; at least, she might as well go at once, and then 
she should be safe from her mother. Putting on her hat, 
she ran down-stairs, and opened the kitchen door. 

“ Patty, if mamma comes in and asks for me, tell her 
I am only strolling about a bit this lovely evening. I 
shall be in directly.” 

But the loveliness of the evening had gone. Somewhat 
to Alison’s surprise, the white mist had increased so 
greatly as to obscure everything but itself. “ How quickly 
it has come on!” she exclaimed. 

Mr. Vavasour was waiting for her, and they paced for 
a few minutes the willow walk together. But for a very 
few: the young man said he was pressed for time: he had 
“ heaps ” of packing to do, not having touched it yet, and 
he was going away in the morning. 


A WAITING HEART. 


m 


“ Going away!” exclaimed Alison. 

“Yes — and be shot to it!” said he. “I got a letter 
this morning recalling me home. My mother's ill, is or- 
dered to Nice, and she wants me to accompany her. Fate 
is crnel to ns, dear Miss Reece.” 

“But — you will be coming back here!” cried the 
startled Alison. 

“ Fm sure I don’t know whether I shall be coming 
back here ever — or whether I may find myself banished 
to the remotest regions of Siberia,” drawled the dandy, 
twirling one end of his mustache. “Nothing seems 
certain in this sublunary world, except uncertain changes. 
Old Tarbey was quite knocked down with the news. I 
wrote to ask you to be good enough to meet me here, 
knowing I should not have a minute all day to get down 
to your place — to tell you of it, and to say good-bye.” 

There was a matter-of-course carelessness in his voice 
and manner that grated terribly on Alison; her pride 
rose to the surface. 

“ Well, I suppose you will be glad to go, Mr. Vava- 
sour!” 

“Glad? Ah, I don’t know about that. Glad to 
escape Tarbey and his grinding: immensely sorry to leave 
you . Wish you were going wi£h me!” 

“ You are too kind. I will not hinder you any longer; 
and I must be going home too. Good-night; and good- 
bye.” 

Mr. Vavasour took her hand and held it. “ Good-bye, 
dear Miss Reece,” he said. “ I shall often think of you, 
and of our pleasant meetings. You will let me take a 
farewell kiss.” 

He bent his face to hers. “ How. dare you, sir?” she 
exclaimed, starting back from him. “Kiss me, indeed! 
and here! Until this night I had taken you for a gentle- 
man.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, laughingly; “ I meant 


180 


A WAITING HEART \ 


no harm. Hulloa, what a mist it is!” he broke off, as 
they came to the end of the walk, and the open field be- 
yond it. “ One can hardly see ten yards before. I must 
see you home.” 

“No, no, no!” cried Alison, vehemently. “I know 
my way perfectly — better than you do — I shall go alone. 
You will have enough to do to get back to the Parsonage; 
take care you don't miss the path. Good-bye, sir.” 

She flew from him across the field and was lost in the 
mist. He took the opposite path. 

“And so that's the last of Reignald Vavasour,” thought 
Alison. “ It serves me right. What a simpleton I have 
been! — as Thomas called me. How I hope mamma has 
not got home!” 

The mist seemed to grow more dense every minute, and 
Alison really found her own gate with some difficulty. 
Her bonnet had not been put away above a minute when 
Mrs. Reece came in. 

“Such a dreadful mist!” she observed to Alison; “I 
don't think I ever saw such a one. It came on suddenly 
after the most lovely sunset. Quiet a remarkable sunset. 
I hope you noticed it, child.” 

“ Thomas Watkyn took care I should do that, mamma. 
He called it divine.” 

“ Indeed it looked nothing less,” replied Mrs. Reece. 
“I am glad you have had Thomas here.” 

Alison complained of a headache and went up to bed ; 
she was afraid of being questioned. If the evening could 
come over again, she would treat Thomas Watkyn differ- 
ently. She felt a little ashamed of herself; she felt a 
little uneasy. 

“But I will make it up to him,” she sighed, as she 
laid her head upon her pillow. “ He will be sure to let 
me; he is so good, and he loves me truly.” 

Alison awoke betimes, and to a vague sense of uneasi- 
ness. It was a fine morning, the mist all cleared away. 


a Waiting heart. 


lBi 


As she stood at the window, the rising sun, lifting him- 
self majestically in the east, tinted her cheeks with a 
rose-red flush and threw down on the green meadows 
floods of a golden, glowing light, while the songs of 
thrushes and larks broke out from every hedge and cop- 
pice. 

“ We must make the damson jam to-day,” observed 
Mrs. Eeece to her, as they rose from breakfast. “ And if 
you would only wash up these breakfast things, Alison, 
while Patty goes about her other work, I should soon 
have the kitchen table clear and might begin it.” 

“Oh, very well,” answered the girl, cheerfully. For 
she had been taking herself to task for her past behavior, 
and meant to turn over a new leaf. You shall have the 
table clear directly, mother.” 

She was busy in the kitchen, when she heard her 
mother open the front door and some one come in. “ It 
is that chattering Mrs. Bennett!” thought she, as she 
dried the teaspoons. 

“Alison! come here,” called her mother, in a quick 
voice. 

She went to the parlor just as she was; her sleeves 
turned back at the wrists, a large brown-holland apron 
on. Very pretty she looked with it all. But it was not 
Mrs. Bennett who sat with her mother; it was a venerable, 
white-haired old gentleman — Mr. Watkyn the elder. 

“ I am come to ask about Thomas,” said he. “I be- 
lieve he came here last night, Miss Alison; at what time 
did he leave you?” 

A prevision struck her with a sort of terror, that some- 
thing was wrong. “He left quite early,” she faltered. 

“ Well, be has never come home.” 

“Not come home!” she said, with a whitening face. 

“ I sat ap till one o’clock, and then I thought the mist 
must have kept him, that he had stayed at some friend’s 
house; I knew not what to think; and that he would be 


182 


A WAITING HEART, 


home the first thing this morning. But we have not seen 
him, and I cannot hear of him.” 

Mrs. Reece was impressed with the frightened, guilty 
look that Alison could not keep out of her countenance, 
and began to feel uneasy. “ Cannot you tell what time it 
was when he left you?” she demanded, sternly. 

“ It was before dusk; it was just after sunset, before 
the mist came on. It must have been near seven o’clock.” 

“Which road did he take?” pursued Mrs. Reece. And 
very reluctantly Alison answered, for she foresaw it would 
bring on further questioning. 

“ The long way — round by the hill.” 

“ Round by the hill!” echoed Mr. Watkyn, in alarmed 
surprise. “ Why did he take that way?” 

Alison flushed and paled alternately; her lips were 
trembling. The fear creeping upon her was — that he and 
young Vavasour had met and quarreled. Perhaps fought 
— and injured one another fatally. In these dread 
moments of suspense, the mind is apt to conjure up far- 
fetched and unlikely thoughts.” 

“I asked him to go round that way,” she replied, in a 
timid tone; “ I wanted him to leave a note for me at the 
dressmaker’s.” 

Old Mr. Watkyn sank into a chair, putting up his 
hands before his troubled face. “I see it all!” he 
breathed, faintly: “ he must have fallen down the Scar.” 

Alison uttered a scream of horror. 

“ Deceived by the mist, he must have walked too near 
its edge,” continued the old man. “ Heaven grant that 
it may not be so! but — I fear it. Was he mad? — to at- 
tempt to cross the plateau on such a night!” 

Catching up his hat, Mr. Watkyn went out swiftly. 
Mrs. Reece grasped her daughter’s hands. They were 
icy-cold. 

“ Alison, what passed between you and Thomas last 
night?” 


A WAITING HEART. 


183 


“Don't ask me, mother! Let me follow Mr. Watkyn; 
I cannot rest indoors. Oh, it cannot, cannot be as he 
fears!" 

“Not one step until you tell me what passed," said tha 
mother firmly. “There's more in all this than meets 
the eye." 

“ He asked me to — give up talking to Mr. Vavasour." 

“And you refused. Well?" 

“He told me I must choose between them," continued 
Alison, bursting into tears. “Oh, mother, it was all 
folly, all my temper; he could not see that, and when he 
went away, he said he went for good." 

Mrs. Eeece drew in her thin lips sternly. She stood 
thinking. 

“And what does it mean about your giving him a note 
for the dressmaker? I do not understand. You had 
nothing to write about." 

The girl got her hands free and flung them before her 
face to deaden the sobs. But Mrs. Reece was a resolute 
mother at times, and she extorted the confession. Alison 
had improvised the note, and sent Thomas round the long 
way to deliver it, and so keep him from passing by the 
Willow walk. 

“Oh, child, child!" moaned the dismayed woman. 
“ If he has indeed fallen over the Scar, it is you who will 
have given him his death." 

And it proved to be so. In taking the two mile round 
between the cottage and the farm, a high and perpen- 
dicular precipice, called the Scar, had to be passed. The 
tableland or plateau, on the top was wide and a perfectly 
safe road by daylight, since a traveler could keep as far 
from the unprotected edge as he pleased. But on a dark 
night or in a thick fog it was most dangerous. Deceived 
by the mist of the previous night, Thomas Watkyn must 
have drawn near the edge unwittingly, and fallen over it. 
There he lay, on the sharp rocks, when the poor father 


184 


A WAITING HEART . 


and others went to look for him, his death-like face up- 
turned to the blue sky. 

“ Speak to me, Thomas! speak to me!” wailed Alison, 
quite beside herself with remorse and grief, as she knelt 
by him, wringing her hands. “ Oh, Thomas, speak to 
me! I loved you all the while.” 

But Thomas neither spoke nor moved. The voice that 
had nothing but tender words for her was silenced now; 
the heart she had so grieved might never beat in joy or 
sorrow again. 

'No person had seen or spoken with him after quitting 
her the previous night, save the dressmaker, little in- 
dustrious Miss Ford. She had answered his knock her- 
self, she related, and he put the note into her hands, 
saying Miss Beece had asked him to leave it in passing. 
“ What a thick mist it is that has come on,” he remarked 
to her in his pleasant, chatty way. “Ah, it is indeed, 
sir ” she answered, and shut her door as he' walked away. 

For many weeks Alison Keece lay ill with brain fever, 
hovering between life and death. Some people said it 
was the shock that made her ill and took her senses away; 
others thought she must have loved the poor young man 
to distraction; no one, save her mother, knew it was the 
memory of her last interview with him, and the schem- 
ing to send him on the route that led to his accident, 
that had well-nigh killed her. But the young are strong 
in their tenacity of life, and she grew better by slow de- 
grees. 

One warm April afternoon, when the winter months 
had given place to spring, Allison, leaning on the arm of 
her mother, went to sit in the porch. She was very 
feeble yet. It was the first time she had sat there since 
that memorable evening with her ill-fated lover. There 
she remained, thinking and dreaming. They could not 
persuade her to come in, so wrapped her in a warm shawl. 

Sunset came on; was almost as beautiful, curious, per- 


A WAITING HEART. 


185 


haps, that it should be so, as the one he and she had 
watched together more than six months before. The 
brilliant beams shone like molten gold in the glowing 
west, the bine sky around was flecked with pink and 
amethyst. Alison's eyes were fixed on the lovely scene 
with an enraptured gaze, her lips slightly parting with 
emotion. 

“ Alison, what are you thinking of ?" 

“ Of him , mother. Of his happiness. He is livwig in 
all that glorious beauty. I think there must have been 
an unconscious prevision in his mind, by what he said 
that evening as we watched it, that he should soon be 
there. Oh, mother, I wish I was going to him! I wish 
I could be with him to-morrow!" 

The mother paused; she felt inclined to say something, 
but feared the agitation it might cause. 

“Well, well, child, you are getting better," she pres- 
ently answered. 

“ Yes, I do get better," sighed the girl. “ I suppose 
it pleased God that I should." 

“ Time soothes all things, Alison. In time you will be 
strong again, and able to fulfill life's various duties with a 
zest. Trials are good — oh so good! — for the soul. But 
for meeting with them, we might never learn the way to 
Heaven." 

Alison did not answer. Her feeble hands were clasped 
in silent prayer, her face was lifted to the glories of the 
evening sky. 

“ It was at the same sunset hour, an evening or two 
later, that Alison, who was picking up strength daily, 
strolled away to the church-yard. She wanted to look for 
a newly-made grave in that corner where so many of the 
Watkyns lay buried. 

She could not see it; the same gravestones that were 
there before were there now; there was no fresh one. 


186 


A WAITING HEART . 


“ Perhaps they opened the old vault for him/ 5 thought 
Alison, as she sat down on the bench just inside the gate, 
for she was too weak to walk back again without a rest. 

The sun was going down to-night without any loveli- 
ness; just a crimson ball, which seemed to give a red 
light to the atmosphere^ and to light up redly the face of 
a pale, tottering man, who was coming up to the gate by 
help of a stick. He halted when he reached it. Alison 
turned sick and faint with all manner of emotions as she 
gazed at him, fright being uppermost. 

“Alison!” 

“ Thomas!” 

He held out his hand; he came inside; his pale, sad 
face wore for her its old sweet expression. 

“ Oh, Thomas, I thought you were dead,” she burst 
forth, in a storm of sobs. “ I came here to look for your 
grave! I thought I had killed you.” 

“ They thought I was dead at first; they thought for a 
long while that I should die,” he answered, as he sat 
down beside her, keeping her hand in his. “ But the 
skillful medical men have raised me up, under God. I 
hope in time to be strong and well again.” 

“Can you ever forgive me?” she wailed, bitter, painful 
tears falling down her cheeks like rain. . “ I shall never 
forgive myself.” 

“No? Then you must atone to me, Alison, instead. 
Be all the more loving to me during our future lives. We 
must pass them together, my dear.” 

“ Do you mean it — still?” she gasped. “ Oh, Thomas! 
how good and true you are! If I can only be a little bit 
worthy of you!” 

They walked home slowly, arm in arm. Neither could 
walk fast yet. Mrs. Reece came to the porch to meet 
them. God is full of mercy, she thought. 

“I did not tell her, Thomas,” she said; “she w r as so 


A WAITING HEART. 


18 ? 


dreadfully low when she came out of the fever. I meant 
to tell her to-night.” 

“I have told her myself; it was best so,” answered 
Thomas Watkyn. 

[the ekd. ] 



i 


i 




► 


> 






MRS. ALEV Mi VEHill MILLER S 


1. A Dreadful Temptation. 

2. The Bride of the Tomb. . 

3. An Old Man’s Darling. 


UOUK«i. 

Price. 

20 

20 

20 

4. Queeuie’s Terrible Secret 20 

5. Jaquelina 20 

6. Little Golden’s Daughter 20 

7. The Rose and the Lily b 20 

8. Countess Vera 20 

9. Bonnie Dora 20 

10. Guy Kenmore’s Wife 20 


No. 

54. 


55. 

56. 


on 


GlCOiSGE ELIOTS WORKS, 


11 . 

12 . 

13. 

14. 

15. 

16. 
IT. 
18. 

19. 

20 . 
21 . 
22 . 
23. 


Janet’s Repentance 10 

Silas Marner 10 

Felix Holt, the Radical 20 

The Mill on the Floss 20 

Brother Jacob 10 

Adam Bede 20 

Romola 20 

Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Barton 10 

Daniel Deronda 20 

Middlemarch 20 

Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 10 

The Spanish Gypsy 20 

Impressions of Theophrastus Such 10 


MISCELLANEOUS WORKS 


24. 

25. 

26. 


27. 


28. 


29. 

30. 


31. 

32. 

33. 

34. 

35. 

36. 

37. 

38. 

39. 

40. 

41. 

42. 


43. 

44. 

45. 


46. 

47. 


48. 

49. 


50. 

51. 

52. 

53. 


The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery 10 

Yolande. By William Black 20 

Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss Brad- 

don 20 

When the Ship Comes Home. By Bes- 

ant Sc Rice : 10 

John Halifax, Gentleman. By Miss 

Mulock 20 

In Peril of his Life. By Gaboriau 20 

The Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

Molly Bawn. By the “ Duchess ” 20 

Portia. By the “ Duchess ” 20 

Kit: a Memory. By James Payn 20 

East Lvnne. By Mrs. Henry Wood... 20 
Her Mother’s Sin. By Bertha M. Clay. 10 
Ar Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 

Phyllis. By the “Duchess ” 20 

David Copperfleld. By Charles Dickens 20 
Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade. . 20 

Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

Shirley. By Miss Bronte 20 

The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

Charlotte Temple. By Miss Rawson.. 10 

Dora Thorne. By Bertha M. Clay 20 

Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

Camille. By Alex Dumas, Jr... 10 

The Three Guardsmen. Bv Alex. 

Dumas .... 20 

Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte 20 

Romance of a Poor Young Man. By 

Feuillet 10 

Back to the Old Home. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 10 

Maggie: or, the Loom Girl of Lowell. 

By William Mason Turner, M. D 20 

Two Wedding Rings. By Margaret 

Blount 20 

Led Astray. By Helen M. Lewis 20 


58. 

59. 

60. 


61. 

62. 

63. 

64. 

65. 

66 . 
67. 


68 . 

69. 


70. 


il. 


72. 

73. 


74. 


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< 6 . 

77. 


78. 


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81. 


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86 

8 ".. 

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89. 

90. 


91. 

92. 


93. 

94. 


95. 

96. 

97. 

98. 


99. 

100 . 


. „ T Frice. 

A Woman’s Atonement. By Adah M. 

Howard 1 20 

False. By Geraldine Fleming. . . 1 ... 20 

The Curse of Dangerfield. By Elsie 

Snow ‘ ^0 

Ten Years of His Life. By Eva Ever 

green 20 

A W Oman’s Fault. By Evelyh Grav . . 20 
Twenty \ ears After. By Alex. Dumas 20 
A Queen Amongst Women, and Be- 
t ween Two Sins. By Bertha M. Clay.. 20 
Madolin’s Lover. By Bertha 2a. Clay.. 20 
rhaddeus of Warsaw. By Jane Porter 20 

Lucile. By Owen Meredith 20 

Charles Auchester. By E. Berger. 20 

A Strange Story. By Bulwer 20 

Aurora Floyd. By Miss Braddon . ..... 20 

Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 20 

Called to Accou nt. By Annie Tb o'mas 20 
Old M.vddelton’s Money. By Mary 

Cecil Hay ‘ 30 

Thorns and Orange Blossoms. By 

Bertha M. Clay. Complete 10 

Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dick 
ens 


Moths, a Novel. By “Ouida” 
Gertrude the Governess. By William 

Mason Turner, M.D 

Christmas Stories. By Charles Dick- 
ens 

The Executor. By Mrs. ’ Alexaii dor . .' . 
Annette. By the Author of “ Camille ” 
A Sinless Crime. By Geraldine Flem- 
ing 

A ^? uble Marriage.’ By * Beatrice 
Collensie 

T1 i^^ entworth Mystery.” By Watts 
Phillips 

Leola Dale’s Fortune. By Geraldine 

Fleming 

Plot and Counterplot ay the Author 

of “ Quadroon?* * ‘ . 

Fair and Fab' . By Mrs. Dale. 

Out of tho Streets. By Adah M. 

Howard 

Set in Diamonds. Bv the “ Countess ” 
Who was the Heir? By Geraldine 

I leming 

Little Golden 

Daughters of Eve. By Paul Meritt .' .' .' ! 
The World Between Them. By the 

“Countess” 

Beauty’s Marriage. By Owen Marst.on 
Sundered Hearts. By Adah M. How- 
ard „ 

A Fatal Wooing. By Laura J. Libbey. 
Only a Girl’s Love. By Geraldine 

Fleming 

Not to be Won. By Mrs. Lenox Beli! . 
Merit Versus Money. By Garnett 

Marnell 

Agatha. By Eva Evergreen 

Behind the Silver Veil. By Mrs. Dale. 
A Passion Flower. By the “ Countess ” 
Pauline. By the Author of “Leon- 

uette’s Secret ” 

Wife or Slave. By the Author of 

“Not to be Won” 

A Dark Marriage Morn. Bv Owen 
Marston 


20 


20 

20 


20 

20 

20 


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20 

20 


20 

20 


20 

20 


20 

20 

20 


20 

20 


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Remember that we do not charge extra for postage. Munro’s Library will be sent 
to any part of the world, single numbers for 10 cents, double numbers for 20 cents. 

NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

24 & 26 Vandewater St., N. Y. 


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